


Skyhold Abbey - The Life of a Skyhold Servant

by LadyDracarys



Series: The Life of a Skyhold Servant [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Introvert, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Romance, Servant AU, Shyness, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Will they or wont they?, servant girl - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8685439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDracarys/pseuds/LadyDracarys
Summary: Anne is a quiet and shy servant girl in Skyhold. This is a collection of episodes/vignettes about her and her life in the keep.Brought on by a Tumblr conversation about "self-inserted" DA fanfics. I said that if I was anyone in Skyhold, I’d probably end up being one of the quiet, invisible servants running around the grounds. A little mouse scared of her own shadow.What follows is the result of that idea.You can also find fun prompts that I fill for Anne while drinking on Friday nights, all on my tumblr page @ladydracarysao3 (always accepting prompts) I have even made a home for them here: Skyhold Abbey - Bonus Features.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Meet Anne: Day dreamer, Introvert, Nervous Nelly
> 
> What happens when she is ordered to deliver luncheon to the Commander?
> 
> A nightmare, of course.

 

“Anne! I said, get over here!” Skyhold Head Cook Donatien, bellows angrily at the servant girl. He is glaring at her while holding a tray with stew, bread, and the appropriate flatware placed upon it. The tray is meant to be delivered for someone’s luncheon. The kitchen is in an uproar as the staff frantically pull together meals for the Inquisition’s elite. Servants and cooks alike are darting around the room, preparing trays and sending them off for delivery.

Anne had been standing in the corner, twiddling her thumbs, dazed and day dreaming… _again_.

The hollering Donatien causes the girl to snap her gaze to the cook in horror. Mousey brown hair flying in her face from the sudden movement, she bashfully tucks it back behind her ear with shaky fingers. Having just been caught lollygagging, she immediately feels ashamed. Eyes glancing at her as they whiz by, she knows they are inwardly laughing at her. Her pale cheeks turn a bright shade of crimson from the embarrassment.

Anne absolutely abhors someone yelling at her, especially one of her superiors. Which let’s face it, is almost everyone in Skyhold. The feeling of wanting to cry, rush out of the kitchen, and probably purge the contents of her stomach into a bucket, overwhelms her. Yet, she knows that she must press on.

Head lowered, shoulders slouched, Anne silently walks up to the cook and takes the tray from his hands. “I am sorry, Messere,” she says meekly while not making eye contact with her perturbed boss.

He sighs in disgust, probably rolling his eyes at her, if she had the courage to look. “Just take this tray to the Commander.”

Her large blue doe-eyes shoot up to the cook’s in shocked terror. Out of everyone in Skyhold, the Commander is by far the most intimidating. The servant girl does not understand why _she_ should be the one sent to him. The cook obviously hates her, there is no other explanation.

She has been standing there silently gaping at the irritated man for far too long. He snaps at her again, “Go now, before it gets cold! You fool child.” He is shaking his head as she jerks away. Her hasty and clumsy movements cause a portion of the Commander’s stew to slop out of its bowl and onto the tray.

Anne is certain that it is Maferath by her side rather than Andraste. Now, not only does she have to enter the Commander’s office, but she has slopped his lunch and dirtied its presentation. What is it that the elven servants say? _‘May the dread wolf take you?’_ Anne is certain he already has.

As carefully as she can with shaky hands, she walks out of the kitchen’s back door. The flatware clatters and clangs on the metal tray, matching the tremors Anne feels racing inside her. She couldn’t be anymore terrified of the Commander than she already is. She has seen him bark orders at many a servant, messenger, and recruit. He does not seem to understand just how intimidating he is to… _the little people._

She is extra careful to dodge and weave through the bustling hive of people coming and going every which way around her; desperately trying not to spill any more of the lunch shaking on the tray. Yet, dread and worry still fill her gut as she crosses the grounds by the barn, passing the small market set up by Skyhold’s gates, and begins to climb the stairs of the battlements leading to the Commander’s tower.

Upon reaching his door, she takes a deep breath and lightly shakes the tension from her shoulders. Still balancing the tray with both hands, she leans in to snag the handle with her pinky. Quietly and softly she pulls the door open enough that she can hook her foot around it to swing it out wider. Praise to the Maker, for the door easily glides open. She is proud of herself for not spilling anymore stew, when the heavy wood quickly swings back against her as she slips into the room.

Her pride is short lived, as always.

Accompanied with a growling roar, an object comes flying across the room at her. A wooden box of some kind slams into the tray, causing her to drop everything. The tray, soup, bread, flatware, and now the contents of the mystery box crash to the floor. Pottery and slick, piping hot stew explode against the stone in a horrifying array of Anne’s worst nightmare.

“Forgive me! I did not see you enter!” She hears the Commander call out to her as she falls to her knees. Desperately, silently, and efficiently, she attempts to pick up the larger pieces of broken pride off the floor and place them on the tray. Brown hair falling in her face, she curses herself inwardly for not wearing it up. She tries to tuck her hair away with sticky stew covered fingers. All she accomplishes is putting bits of stew in her hair.

The Commander rushes to her side in a desire to aid the poor servant girl. An attempt which she bashfully denies, “Please Serah, let me clean this. I am so very sorry for being so clumsy. I will bring you another meal… right away.”

“I insist, the fault was mine.” The commander kneels across from her and helps sort the larger pieces onto the tray.

Anne picks up the box. Holding it in her hand she studies it quizzically. The box has a wooden exterior, with a carving of Andraste inside the lid. A red velveteen inner layer, with indented compartments meant to hold some of the items now strewn across the floor. She is not sure, but she thinks this may be the carefully crafted container of a Templar’s lyrium philter.

A hesitant and gentle black gloved hand reaches out to her and the box. Anne jerks as she realizes her intrusive error, and bashfully places the box on top the black leather. In doing so, she allows her eyes to trail up the leather, to the armored arm, followed by a large black and red fur mantle, and finally to the face of the Commander.

Her eyes stop on his, freezing her with his golden stare. She has never been so close to the Commander before. He is looking at her kindly, if not harboring his own pained shame and embarrassment. His brows slightly raised, eyes slightly drooped, the slightest twinge of an upturn to the corner of his mouth. The twinge drawing Anne’s eyes to the scar that is stretched over the right side of his upper lip. He politely clears his throat, signaling to Anne that her hand still clutches the box that she is supposed to be returning to him. She drops it and snaps her hand back to her side.

Looking back to the man, all of her senses are centered on him. She takes a gulp so large that she is sure he heard it. Red blotches form on her neck, cheeks, and ears. Her face feels as if it is on fire. He thanks her for the box and reaches back to set it softly on his desk. He twists back to face her again, and lifts the tray of broken items from the floor as he stands.

She stays there kneeling and watching him for a few moments too long, before snapping up to stand as well. She reaches for the tray, admiring the softness in his face as he places it in her hands.

“I will return with your meal, and to finish cleaning your floor… Co-Commander,” Anne stammers, face still hot from all of the emotions racing through her body. She doesn’t even know what emotions they are, they seem to be all of them. She feels dizzy; she should leave before she faints.

“I do apologize… umm,” he smiles shyly and rubs the back of his head, “What was your name?”

Anne gets not but a squeak of her name out before the door behind her flies open with a loud ruckus.

“Cullen! I need to talk… what in the void happened in here?” Anne turns to see the Inquisitor entering the office.

“I’m sorry your worship, I will have it cleaned at once.” She bows her head to the men with a quick curtsy before fleeing through the open door, tray of shame in her hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from the previous chapter.

 

Anne frantically races down the steps outside the commander’s tower. Her face is brightly flushed, her eyebrows pitched high and pinched in the middle. She can feel tears threatening to escape, but she does her best to hold them back. Her mouth is open and also grimaced, as she breathes heavily while running down the stairs and across the grounds. The broken items on her tray bounce and threaten to fly off from her frantic pace. The people walking about the grounds of Skyhold have leap out of her way as she barrels through. She is far too mortified from what had just happened to give a care what everyone else is thinking of her as she runs to the kitchen.

Quickly she ascends the steps to the back door of the kitchen. Using her hip to slam the door open, she bursts through and tosses the tray and all of its holdings in the trash. Everyone in the room stops what they are doing to see the girl tear through. One of the cooks begins to ask her what she has done, but Anne ignores the voice. She runs straight past, pushing any bodies in her way, and out the other door into the lower level of the castle.

Finding a corner void of people, Anne slams her back against the stone wall. Hyperventilating at this point, she sinks down and grabs her knees. She needs to calm herself. Panic from the embarrassment has taken over her mind and body. She thinks of the Inquisitor and how he entered the office; he looked at her like she was a fool. Because she is a fool. He saw right through her.

She has to go back to that office to clean it, but she is dreading the thought. The girl would much rather run away, far away, and never see either of those men again.

She feels ill. Rocking herself gently, she tries her darnedest to steady her breathing. She needs to relax. She very well cannot go back to that office in this state. She has to return, but she is terrified of what will happen next. This encounter was already her worst nightmare, how much worse will it get from here?

After a many long and frightful minutes, Anne is able to maintain gentle breathing and the dizziness subsides. Her panic attack soothes, and she eventually feels fit enough to stand. She wipes and smooths out her simple brown servant’s frock and notices that the lower half is speckled with stew stains. She groans to herself as she marches back to the kitchen. She will have a heck of a time washing those out.

“What was all that about?” Assistant cook Mairead glares at Anne incredulously as she reenters the kitchen. Thankfully Donatien was not present for the display, or else Anne would surely be punished.

She does not make eye contact with the cook. Walking up slowly with her head hanging, she speaks softly, “I need another tray for the commander.”

The cook orders her to dig out the one she disposed of and clean it while the new meal is put together. After cleaning and drying the metal tray, Anne digs out a dust bin, a small broom, and a few rags. She places the items in a bag with a long strap, slinging it around her body. She finds a pail and pours enough soap and water in it to clean with, but not so much that it is too heavy. The new tray of lunch awaits her in Mairead’s hands when she is finished.

The cook hands it off to the servant girl with a searching stare. Anne ignores the look and delicately balances the meal and her bucket, before exiting the kitchen once more. When she arrives back at the Commander’s office, a guard sees her and kindly opens the door. Anne is very appreciative and thanks the young man before he leaves her to her work.

Commander Rutherford is sitting at his desk staring intensely at a paper in his hands. Anne thanks the Maker when she notices that the Inquisitor has already left.

She leans carefully to set down the bucket, and steps over the remainder of the mess to bring the Commander his food. He looks up from his work startled and quickly rises to his feet as she approaches.

“You’re back!” He calls out a little louder than he had intended, causing him to flush and Anne’s eyes to grow wide. She remains silent and looks away, the slightest smile to her lips. He reaches for the tray in her arms and places it on his desk with a shy nod of thanks. The girl silently steps away while he sits to eat.

Anne sets to work with her bag of goods and bucket, scraping and cleaning the remainder of the mess. She keeps her back to the commander as she rests on her knees. She doesn’t want to catch herself staring at him or something else ridiculous.

After a few minutes of silence between the two, Commander Rutherford clears his throat and speaks up. “I never did catch your name,” he says with a slight waver in his voice.

She doesn’t look up from her chore when she answers, “It is Anne, Ser.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, have you been in Skyhold long?”

“No, ser. I arrived only a few weeks ago.”

“What brought you to the Inquisition, Anne?”

Why is he asking her all of these questions? She is just a servant girl, she doesn’t matter. She’d also like to avoid sticking her foot in her mouth. She decides to give him the shortest and most diplomatic answer she can think of, “I wanted to help, Ser.”

“Where are you from?”

Anne wants to groan, she doesn’t understand why he is peppering her with all of these questions. Nor does she know how to politely ask him to stop. “Outside Honnleath, Ser.”

“Honnleath? That’s extraordinary!”

“I assure you it is not, it is just a small farmer’s community…”

The commander cuts her off excitedly, “What I mean to say is, I am also from Honnleath.”

Anne isn’t sure what to say to that, so she remains silent. She is too busy scrubbing the floor to hear the Commander stand and walk to her side. She jumps with a start when he kneels next to her. He picks up the dust bin and broom, and starts sweeping bits of debris.

“Commander, you don’t need to—“

He ignores her protest and cuts her off, again. “Did you know my younger sister, Rosalie?”

“I… don’t believe so. I didn’t really go into the village very often.” She stares at him as he sweeps up small bits of broken pottery. His face and voice are soft. He looks at her from the corner of his eye and grins. Anne could almost say it looks flirtatious, but that is preposterous.

“Well, it is comforting to know someone else from the area is here with the Inquisition. Are you enjoying your time here in Skyhold?” His words sound so genuine. Anne’s relaxes slightly, allowing herself to enjoy his kind attention. Flirtatious or not – and it is most certainly not – it appears she was wrong about the man’s personality. She sees no evidence of the dour commander she assumed she would meet.

“It is very honest work, Ser. I am happy to be here.” She looks at the man and smiles politely, “I would also be happy to finish the sweeping.” She stretches out her hand to take the broom from the commander.

He had removed his gloves before eating, and he had not yet put them back on before going to Anne’s side. When he smiles shyly and hands her the small broom, their fingers brush against each other. Soft delicate sparks shoot up Anne’s arm and ignites excitement inside her chest. The touch of his skin causes her breath to stop. The two of them pause and stare at the contact of their hands, before both blush and pull away.

As Anne finishes the chore, face pink and downcast, the commander coughs and scratches the back of his head. He rises to his feet and paces back to his desk. She can hear the nerves in his voice when he speaks, “Perhaps… I should… uhh… assist you in your return. This is a lot for you to carry… alone.”

Anne begins to protest but he cuts her off, “I insist.” He picks up the tray of his finished lunch, while she pulls together her supplies and stands. She turns and peers at him silently, wondering what his intentions are, and feeling silly for thinking he would have any. He smiles sweetly and lifts the tray in a way that points to the door, “After you.”

The commander follows Anne down the steps, across the grounds, and back up to the kitchen. She holds the door for him as he enters.

The kitchen staff freezes immediately upon seeing him enter. Donatien rushes toward the commander, grabbing the tray from his hands, “Commander, Ser! Is there a problem?”

The other serving girls gawk at Anne as she quietly sets her items in the corner. They look back and forth between her and the commander. She knows they are coming up with wild stories to gossip about, whether or not they are true.

“No problem at all, I was just aiding Anne back from my office. I’m afraid I made a mess of things for her when she first tried to deliver my meal. It was the least I could do to help her return with all of this gear.” His tone is so confident and formal, a complete juxtaposition from how he spoke to _her_. However, his story makes far more sense to her than her fleeting hopes that he just wanted to talk to her.

Donatien shoots a look to Anne. The cook is expressionless, but if she has learned anything of the man, he is probably fuming. Merely saving face in front of the commander now, but later she will get an ear full.

The commander looks so out of place in the kitchen, which he appears to soon realize. Growing flustered from all the gaping eyes upon him and Anne, he chuckles nervously and backs away. “I suppose I will let you all get back to work. Forgive my interruption,” and with that, he turns on his heel and exits the kitchen. Anne watches him, but he does not look at her.

He leaves her feeling confounded. She wonders if he was only chatting her up because he felt bad. Or perhaps he is the type who is uncomfortable when people are silent around him. Whatever his reasons, the butterflies she felt in his office where obviously imprudent. She is a foolish girl to even fathom he could have any genuine interest in her.

Anne ignores the stares and whispers as she tends to her bucket of dirty water and broken dreams. She silently hopes that after today’s display, Donatien will no longer pick her to deliver the commander’s meals.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple weeks later...

Everything changed for Anne after Commander Rutherford’s ruined luncheon. The day when her incompetence was splayed out on the stone of his office floor.

Donatien made sure she was kept from delivering anything to the Commander. He reported to Head Housekeeper Elsa that Anne had caused a disturbance so immense, that the commander was disturbed enough to come to the kitchens himself. Anne was already known for being clumsy, for being a day-dreamer. There was no question in anyone’s mind that the whole ordeal was her fault. The other kitchen girls snickered and gawked at her. Whispering gossip that was terrible and definitely untrue. Mainly a small group of elvhen women, she hadn’t yet found a way to fit in with them. Now she was sure she never will.

As some form of penalty, Anne was put on hearth and chamber duty for the foreseeable future. That and all-around gopher for any needs her superiors required. She often finds herself racing around more than she ever did when she primarily helped in the kitchens. Every morning she cleans and replenishes the fire places in the rooms of both the guests and the elite of Skyhold. She developed a routine of tending to the hearth, then making the beds, and then she straightens, tidies, or cleans anything needing her attention before moving onto the next room.

Conveniently, Commander Rutherford’s room is not on her list.

Once done with the rooms, she runs errands and delivers requisitions for the heads and assistant heads of the other varying departments of the keep. Whoever needs more help that day is generally where Elsa sends her. In the evenings she ensures the hearths are well stocked with wood, and fires are big and warm.

At first Anne was ashamed of her reassignment. Not trusted to have any real encounters with the elite, only to enter their rooms once they’ve emptied. However, she ultimately relished in her new position. She is kept so busy that she rarely has time to think to herself. She is actually beginning to make friends, as well. The other maids are far more approachable than the lot in the kitchens. Plus with her gopher duties, she is meeting many other workers from all over Skyhold. In her free time, she finds herself chatting with her new acquaintances more and more often.

A couple weeks after the accident, Anne discovers that she is actually starting to enjoy herself. At this point she has almost forgotten about the embarrassing altercation with the Commander. If anything, she wonders if it wasn’t a good thing. She feels liberated in her new post.

She hasn’t seen Commander Rutherford in such close proximity since.

Also, a good thing.

When she does notice him from a distance marching through the halls, walking the battlements, or training his men in the yard, she gets a pit in her stomach. Her face flashes hot, before she darts her eyes away. It is for the best that Donatien and Elsa keep her from the man. Anne has no right to develop a young girl’s crush. She is nothing but a little mouse darting around the keep. He leads an army that is quickly growing strong enough to combat the world’s most notorious foes. She tells herself that he was only kind to her because he is simply a better natured man than people think. It had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with his respectful chantry upbringing. That is all it was. It was nothing more.

“Anne, are you paying attention?” Elsa calls her back to the present and away from misty thoughts about the commander. Anne finished her daily chamber duties and is standing in Elsa’s office. She is supposed to be listening for what is expected of her now. She hasn’t completely mastered the art of focus, yet.

“I’m sorry, Messere Elsa,” Anne says softly. “What do you need of me?”

“I said I need you to go to the requisition office and turn these in.” The woman sits at her desk, writing with one hand and holding out a stack of papers with the other. Anne timidly approaches the desk and takes the pile of requisitions with a polite nod, but Elsa does not lift her shrewd stare from her workspace. “Also, see if they have an estimate on the tapestries. Lady Montilyet has been asking about their expected arrival.”

“Yes, Messere, right away,” Anne bows to the head housekeeper respectfully before turning to leave. She withdraws from the office located in the lower level of the castle near the kitchens. She decides to take the back kitchen door to walk Skyhold’s grounds on her way to the requisition building. She ignores the snickering and whispers she hears in the room as she passes.

The girls smirk at Anne viciously as she hurriedly walks by. They were always mean to her when she worked with them. The women picked on her for often being lost in her thoughts. They teased when they would find her sketching in a journal in the corner. The group thought it hilarious when they saw the way Anne looked at the Commander. Quickly spreading cruel intentioned gossip that Anne dreamt the former Templar would steal her away like a cinder maid from the fairytales.

Escaping the judgment from the kitchen girls, Anne emerges outside. With a long relaxing inhale, she takes in the crisp mountain air. The corners of her mouth upturned, she takes the steps that lead from the door quickly. She is almost skipping, happy to be outdoors if only for a brief time. Her eyes avoid any kind of gaze up to the battlement tower as she passes. Instead she grins and watches the spirited display of merchants in the market haggling with their patrons.

She took the long way round to the requisition office on purpose. The afternoon sun still hangs in the air, warming her face. The fresh breeze sings while carrying small leaves, pleasant scents, and birds in her path. She loves the outdoors, especially on days like today. The atmosphere perks her mood. She feels as if she is floating her way to the building.

When she arrives, she swings the wooden door wide open, allowing for a burst of mountain air to gust inside the building with her. Her long hair and skirts flow around her with an ethereal presence. A presence that a dalish elf on the requisition staff has come to admire about the girl.

Bel’nas has learned that when Anne is pleased, she glows. The longer she works in her new position, the more comfortable she becomes in Skyhold, and the more she glows. He cannot help but find her lovely smile infectious. The elf notices that he grins widely very time he sees her. He thinks she is quite pretty. He appreciates the kindness she bestows on everyone she meets. He regards her reserved and polite nature as precious. And as she relaxes into her surroundings, she is quickly becoming a ray of light in his days.

When her eyes find his, her smile brightens. “Hello, Bel’nas!” she exclaims, gliding in his direction in a manner that takes his breath away. He sets down the bow he was idling carving in order to properly receive her, rising from the chair where he sat at the reception desk. “I have some requisitions for you,” Anne delicately hands her friend the stack of papers. Upon taking them with his thanks, she clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m so happy to find you here today.”

Anne has enjoyed her encounters with the elf. He has always treated her kindly and without prejudice. Some elves, especially the few around of dalish descent and the ones in the kitchen, have been very cold to her. They call her ‘shem’ and glare at her when she tries to say hello. But not Bel’nas. He has received her warmly since the first day she was sent to requisitions.

When not manning the desk in the office, Bel’nas crafts bows, arrows, and quivers for the Inquisition’s forces. Like today, he tends to leisurely craft even when he is working the reception. Anne runs her fingers over the bow resting on the desk. He had been carving a beautiful design of curling elegant vines into its side.

“This is beautiful, Bel’nas,” she says hushed, taken by the delicate skill of his work. She looks back to the elf, studying the curving lines on his face. He has facial a tattoo like all dalish, but Anne thinks his is particularly stunning on his features. The markings are like soft black trails that line from his forehead down the sides of his face. There are more markings from his lips down the front of his neck. The soft black works nicely with his tan skin. The masculine yet elegant nature of the lines flow beautifully with his long dark brown hair.  She knows that the markings are meant to give homage to something, but she has been too shy to ask what. She is so worried she will ultimately offend her new friend, even though she desperately wants to learn everything about his culture.

The man grins at Anne. His large and kind green eyes flicker in the low firelight of the dark wooden room. He sets the stack of requisitions in a pile to the side and stands tall, clasping his hands behind his back. “Thank you, ma’fenor. I am crafting this one for myself. Perhaps once I’ve finished, I will teach you to use it.” Anne flushes at the flirtatious tone she detects in his voice. He has started calling her that strange elvhen word lately. She is too embarrassed to ask what it means.

She tucks stray hair behind her ear and glances away as pink spreads across her cheeks. “I was supposed to ask about the tapestries. Do you know when they will arrive? There is a dignitary arriving soon that Lady Montilyet would like to impress.”

“Oh I know. The ambassador has been sending countless people here asking for them. Don’t worry. They should be here in the morning.” He looks at the girl for a moment in silence. Then with an upturn to one corner of his mouth, he seems to have come up with an idea. He says coyly, “Say, Anne… some of us are going to the tavern tonight. Do you think you’d want to come along?”

Anne eyes grow wide. The look Bel’nas is giving her is definitely flirtatious. Her head lowers and the pink in her cheeks burns hotter. Her voice falters as she answers, “I… I have to tend to the fires in… in the evening.”

“Whose room is your last?”

“The Inquisitor’s.”

“Okay, how about I meet you in the great hall? After you have finished with his fire, we can go to the tavern together.”

Anne suppresses a giggle. She brings her fingers to her lips bashfully. Bel’nas stares at her delicate fingertips, a small amount of soot under her nails and in the creases of her skin. She looks up at him through long bashful lashes. Her voice soft and sweet, “I think that would be really nice.”

She tells him she can meet him in the hall around nine bells. Her face flushed as they continue to speak. Her fingers fidget with her simple dress as she sways her body back and forth. Anne is both excited and embarrassed by the situation. Bel’nas regales in a few stories about the men in the smithy next door, causing Anne to laugh and giggle. Her enjoyment only fuels the elf’s fire, proud that he is the cause of her delight.

When Quartermaster Threnn enters the office, she gives the pair a straight and penetrating stare. Crossing her arms, no words needed to stop the fraternization. Bel’nas winks in farewell to Anne before she bows her head to the quartermaster and exits the building.

She is both humiliated for being caught loitering, and eager for nine bells to chime this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Threnn remain quartermaster. She is a badass, and I reject the idea that she would no longer hold the position after Haven.


	4. Chapter 4

 

As the evening progressed, Anne’s anxiety heightened.

Her heart is in her throat. She feels as if she has a cold sweat, even though her skin is dry. Her breathing sporadic, her pulse is strained. Anne moved from excitement about Bel’nas’ suggestion right over to sheer terror. She has only ever briefly chatted with him while they worked. Speaking here and there, stealing a few idle moments to gossip and joke about their coworkers and the nobles that prance around Skyhold. He always has a few jokes he heard from the folks in the smithy. She always has a new tidbit about an Orlesian So-And-So and their complaints to the staff.

But she has never spent an evening with him. She has never spent an evening with _anyone_ in Skyhold. Let alone a man. She has been spending her time before bed reading or sketching in her journal. Not this. Never this. Never meeting a man to go _drinking_.

Her chest feels stiff and heavy. Her mind dizzy and eyes tired from the stress. She contemplates not showing up, wonders if maybe she feels a cold coming on. Panic stricken questions race through her mind.

What will they talk about?

What are the implications of tonight?

Does this mean he is interested in her?

Is she interested in him?

She never really thought about it. He was just a nice man in the sea of people that make up Skyhold. She can’t deny he is attractive as well, but he is an elf. And a dalish elf at that. Does that matter? She isn’t sure. But she has never seen a dalish man and human woman together before… _has she_?

“Hold on, you are putting the cart way before the horse. You don’t even know if this means _anything_ ,” she says to herself. She sighs and shakes her head, annoyed with her own thoughts. Stretching her shoulders and neck, she gives her body a quick shake in an attempt to loosen the tension. She can do this. She starts to rise from her knees in front of the Inquisitor’s hearth. Finished tending to his fire, she brushes off what soot she can from her skirt. Really all she does is rub the smudges in deeper. She shrugs, “Matches the stew stains…”

She hears the nine bells begin to ring in the distance and she freezes with a start. Her body rigid she realizes that Bel’nas must being waiting for her downstairs. She is frozen in fear.

“Oh! Hello there!” Inquisitor Fergus Trevelyan calls out behind her. He had reached the top of the steps into his room without her notice.

Anne swings her body around, shocked to hear the man behind her. “Your Worship! I’m sorry, I had just finished refreshing your fire,” she respectfully bows before the leader of the Inquisition.

The Inquisitor laughs in a friendly manner, “That’s quite alright. I appreciate it, thank you.”

“I will leave you to your evening your Worship,” Anne bows again before scooting by the man and rushing down the steps of his tower. The fright has caused her to completely forget to breathe as well as the fact that Bel’nas is waiting for her in the hall below. She flies out of the door at the base of the tower so quickly that she all but throws herself into the Inquisitor’s throne. Finally realizing that she needs air to survive, she pants and huffs trying to catch her breath.

“Should I be flattered or worried?” A voice speaks amusedly behind her. She spins around in a daze to see Bel’nas smirking. He leans up against the stone wall to the left of the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers. His arms are crossed and he has one foot kicked up against the stone.

Anne brings her hand to her heaving chest, attempting to catch her breath. She hunches over, using her other hand to prop herself up against slightly bent knees - an effort to keep standing and not fall over. “Bel… Bel’nas, I… I didn’t… see you there,” she wheezes. “I... I… oh screw it,” she swings the hand once gripping her chest at the elf as if shooing off her failed attempts to speak. She drops her head, hair falling from behind her shoulders to drape past her face.

Bel’nas pushes himself off the wall with his propped foot and strides up to the flushed and breathless maiden. Still smirking at her he says, “Did you run down all three flights of stairs, just to see me?” He winks at her when she lifts her head to glare at him through fallen hair. “Maybe you should sit down,” he gestures to the throne behind her.

Anne snaps up straight, messy and tangled long brown hair flying through the air with her. “What?!” she yells incredulously and far too loudly. The groups of Orlesians dotting the hall stop speaking to one another in order to stare at the two underlings next to the throne. Resuming their low and muffled mumbles, Orlesian masks steal more glances at the two as they whisper.

Without thinking, Anne grabs Bel’nas’ arm and sternly pulls him away from the throne. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m fine,” she mutters lowly at the grinning man. He is proud of himself for getting her out of her doubled over state. He chuckles and nods at the prying eyes that watch them while she drags him through the hall, toward the grand entrance.

It is not until they emerge into the night air that Anne remembers she was nervous to see the man – or realizes that she is touching him. She springs her hand back at the recognition. Staring at his arm where she had gripped it. She pulls her messy hair away from her face with one long brush of her hand from forehead to the back of her head.

Bel’nas admires her in the light of the moon. Her pale skin and blue eyes are luminous in the low blue-white light in the atmosphere. He notices a smudge of soot on her cheek. Gently, as so not to scare the girl, he brings his thumb to her face and wipes it clean. Her eyes fall from his at the realization of her dirty face. He smiles with kindness at her while they stand in silence, allowing her to get acclimated with whatever is going on in her mind. He is a craftsman and a hunter. He can be patient.

Anne isn’t sure what to do, not sure why he is standing there smirking at her silently. Her ears feel hot. Her hands grip and twist nervously. She looks up and notices how his intense green eyes radiate in the low light. She thinks she learned once that elves have better night vision than humans. He continues to grin at her. He is so confident; she isn’t sure how he does it. She loses any nerve she had and drops her gaze from the man again.

“Are we still meeting your friends in the tavern?” her voice trembles a little, all of the anxiety about this event catching up to her.

“If you feel ready,” Bel’nas says gently and produces his elbow for her hand. Tentatively, she wraps her fingers around the inside of his arm. He leads her down the steps outside the Great Hall, and walks with her to the Herald’s Rest Tavern.

Upon entering, Anne is stunned with the noise and commotion. So many people stand and sit throughout the three levels of the tavern. They drink, and sing, and dance. Some play card games, other loudly telling stories. A woman beside the large stone fireplace in the center of the room plays a lute and sings.

Bel’nas leads her through the pockets of celebration. They weave in and out between groups and bodies. Anne grips at his arm tightly, taking the time to look around with wide eyes and a slacked jaw. She pulls his arm to make him lean back to her. “It’s so loud in here!” she yells.

He shouts back over his shoulder, “Is it too much?”

She smiles wildly. The excitement of the room is contagious. She completely forgot her anxiety at the door. “No! This is amazing!” she calls out with a giggle. She watches as a big and burley soldier chugs his large mug of ale all at once to the chanting of his friends. He finishes and slams his mug onto the table in front of him. He wipes ale from his mouth and yowls in triumph as his companions cheer.

Anne covers her mouth lightly with her free hand, in awe and entertained by her surroundings as the elf leads them through the sea of jubilation. They reach the counter – or what will be the counter after the crowd of people waiting in front of it move from their way.

As they wait, Anne watches a card game happening in the corner. There are five people sitting around a table, cards securely held in front of their faces. They are silent and stern. She catches a dwarf - who she believes to be famed author Varric Tethras - slyly eye his opponents before setting a card on the table. A huge and shirtless Qunari next to him slams his fist on the wood with a booming roar. Mugs, and tankards, and cups jump from the surface and threaten to spill. The qunari - who must be the Iron Bull Anne has heard many wild rumors about - stares down the dwarf. Their icy glare is held while the others at the table watch in silence. Suddenly, they both start roaring in laughter. Iron Bull slaps Tethras on the back with such force, that the dwarf lurches forward, knocking a pile of coin over in front of him.

Bel’nas softly swipes Anne’s hair behind her ear, causing her to freeze and her heart to skip. He brings his lips so close that she can feel his skin brush hers while he speaks, “What’ll you have?” His voice and ghosted touch sends shiver down her legs. She feels a little weak.

She clears her throat and prepares to yell, turning her head to him. He did not pull back however, and their cheeks smash together. Anne’s heart starts racing and her fingers go numb. He leans his long, slender, pointed ear to her lips. Anne has never been this close to an elvhen ear before. Is it weird for her to think that?

Bel’nas lightly squeezes her arm to call her attention back to his question. She softly stutters into his ear, “Do they… do they serve… dirty nugs?” Her lips lightly brush his skin, only confounding her feelings even more.

He laughs and grips her shoulder. She can’t move, she is pretty sure she is turning into stone. “What’s in it?” he calls back, sparing her from brushing against her ear again.

“Starkhaven whiskey and ginger root!”

He turns away to put in their order with the dwarf that waits on the other side of the counter. “I bet Cabot has that, just hold on!” he yells over his shoulder at her as he turns. What else would she do? She has been turned into a statue. His close proximity and touch stunning her senseless.

Anne stands there, staring at the elf. She can still feel his lips on her ear. His scent has filled her. He smells like wood and varnish, like the craftsman that he is. As the dwarf prepares their drinks, Bel’nas turns and leans against the counter. He smiles at her, his hands perched and drumming on the wood on either side of him. His head bobs with the lively music and singing happening by the fireplace.  Anne giggles at his goofy expression and hides her face in her hands.

Bel’nas reaches out and pulls her hands away gently. He leans toward her, “Far too pretty to cover that up!” He winks before leaning back proudly. He snorts as he watches her cheeks flush bright pink. She looks down at her shuffling feet and shly smiles.

Cabot hands two dirty nugs to the elf. “You got one too?” she smiles at the drinks in his grasp.

“Sounded good!” he responds before gesturing his head for Anne to follow him. Which she does.

He leads them to the back of the tavern, the gaiety is quieter and more manageable back there. When she decides she no longer has to yell, she asks, “What do I owe you?”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes flat and lips pressed to the side, a look of blunt incredulity. “Nothing,” he speaks flatly. “Don’t be absurd.” With vastly more elbow room now, he hands her a drink.  She nods in thanks, silently wondering what she has gotten herself into.

They arrive at a table of semi-familiar faces. Bel’nas raises his drink to the group as a greeting. “Hello everyone, meet Anne!” He nudges Anne who stands beside him, “Anne, meet everyone!” The elf goes through naming each person, but Anne forgets their names as soon as she hears them. She shyly smiles and nods at each person, just the same; understanding that they all work in the smithy or with requisitions in some capacity, and that is about it.

Quickly, Anne realizes that when Bel’nas said they would be with friends at the tavern that evening, what he really meant was they would all be in the same building, and that’s about it. After introductions he leads her to a completely different table, away from his companions. They sit alone in the corner. She places herself with her back against the wall so that she can see as much of the tavern as possible. Her nerves race back as she wonders what this night means. She’s not sure she is ready for anything more than friendship.

Although, she is most likely just reading too far into his behavior.

It is conceivable that he is just _really_ friendly. Maybe he simply has a flirtatious nature. Anne can be platonically flirtatious, too. Perhaps she has nothing to worry about and they are just becoming fast friends. She likes the idea of having a true friend in Skyhold. Someone she can feel free to be herself around.

She grasps for topics of conversation, wanting to find something to talk about that would solidify the friendship, but she comes up empty. Her nerves still heavy, she can’t seem to think of anything to say, exactly what she feared would happen. So instead, she stares nervously down at her drink in her hands.

“Ma’fenor, please relax,” Bel’nas reaches out and tenderly touches a hand grasping her drink. “It’s just me.”

The girl takes a deep breath followed by a healthy gulp of her drink. He’s right, she’s spoken to him numerous times. She has no reason to fear him. The girl tries to feign confidence and ask the elf, “What does that mean?” She pauses awkwardly when he looks at her as if searching for clarification. She is unsure if he genuinely doesn’t know what she is referring to, or if he is playing a game with her. She lets out a quick huff, “Ma…fenor… what does it mean?”

“It means ‘my dear.’”

Okay, Anne decides that isn’t so bad. It is kind of sweet, really. She drinks more of her whiskey, feeling its soothing effects. The two make small talk, his eyes rarely leaving her. His intense green gaze was first intimidating, but as she loosens up she finds it brings her warmth. Unless that is just the whiskey… could be both. But it’s probably the whiskey.

Soon she finds herself laughing. Feeling comfortable with him again, like how she has felt during their almost daily chats. She remembers how easy he is to talk to and also how very funny he is.

Quickly, one drink turns into two.

Then three.

Bel’nas finds that he enjoys her drink of choice as much as she does. They crack dirty jokes about being ‘dirty nug lovers.’ He grins wildly as she doubles over, laughing so hard that she snorts – a fact that only makes her laugh harder.

“Oh, Bel’nas. This has been so fun. Thank you for bringing me here,” she smiles, wiping a giggle induced tear from the corner of her eye. She peers into her empty mug and decides that a forth would be a terrible idea. “I have to tend fires early in the morning. I should probably head back to my room.”

“I understand,” the man stands and holds out his hand to help Anne out of her seat. Without a care in the world, she places her fingers in his palm. He leads her through the tavern to the outdoors, their hands still clasped. The pair walk the entire way to her room with their fingers entwined. Anne’s chest feels hot. The liquor has made her a bit too relaxed and friendly. She squeezes his hand while giggling as he continues to make her laugh with clever quips.

When they reach her door he pulls her arm in such a way that swings her around, swinging her body against his. She squeaks with shock while her skirts and hair wrap around him. Her breath escapes her. Pinned against his chest, his eyes staring into hers, her chest thumps madly.

Her lips slightly parted in surprise, Bel’nas stares down at them, drawing his own lip in his mouth and biting down. Their breath is quick and shallow. Their faces very close to touching. Too close. Anne begins to question everything that happened this night. She thinks she may have done this all wrong.

Bel’nas waits for a sign that she feels as he does, that she wants him to kiss her, but she remains still. She looks frightened, instead. In a soft and hushed voice, hoarse from laughing and stricken with nerves, Anne murmurs, “What-what are you doing?”

“I was hoping I could kiss you,” his voice is thick with desire, warm whiskey on his breath.

“I… I don’t know…” she hesitates. Her body is tingling and wanting to press her lips to his, but something doesn’t feel right about any of this. It nags at her in the back of her brain to put a stop to this, before it goes deeper. She drops her eyes down in shame, worried she will offend him. He is so nice. She doesn’t want to ruin their friendship. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Bel’nas.”

The elf releases her immediately. He smiles, although the soft grin hides the fact his heart aches with disappointment. “I’m sorry, Ma’fenor.”

“No… I’m sorry, Bel’nas,” she stares at the floor, feeling as if she _has_ ruined everything.

He pulls her into a friendly hug, causing her heart to sink into her gut. “No, no,” he whispers into her ear before lightly pressing his lips to her temple. “It’s alright. Get some rest. I’m afraid I kept you for too long already.” He rubs her shoulders before releasing her and backing away. “Goodnight, Anne.”

As he turns to leave, he doesn’t walk quite as straight and confident as he had before. Anne sighs while entering the room she shares with a number of other servants. She tip toes across the floor to her bed. Her chest feels low. What had just happened? She had such a wonderful time with him tonight, but something stopped her.

She sinks into her bed with a low groan, afraid that nothing will be the same with the Bel’nas. Afraid that one of the only real friendships she has found in Skyhold had just been shattered. Perhaps she should have stayed away. Or, maybe she should have gone along with it and kissed him.

No.

That doesn’t feel right. That wouldn’t be fair to either of them. But she curses herself for making it awkward. What he must think of her now, to have flirted back with him, only to refuse him.

She made a mess of everything.


	5. Episode 5

 

At first things were tense. Anne was sure all of the awkwardness was on her end. Bel’nas never stopped being kind to her. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a little strange every time she saw him. However as the days went on, she became more and more comfortable with their chats. She even went to the tavern with the elf and his friends a few times. Evenings where they actually did _all_ sit together. Bel’nas still flirted with her and she flirted in return, but he didn’t push for anything more and she tried to be conscious of how many drinks she had.

It was like the attempted kiss had never happened. They were just friends again, and he was steadily becoming her dearest friend in the keep. Anne liked that.

Anne was really beginning to feel at home in Skyhold. She felt at ease with her tasks, and comfortable with what was expected of her. Even still, she stayed away from the kitchens as much as she could. Her new close friendship with Bel’nas caught increased negative attention of the female elf staff. More fuel for the fire with the women in the kitchen. Any time she saw the group huddled together, glaring at her, and murmuring to each other, she did her best to keep her head down and avoid their ire.

Avoiding it was getting harder and harder.

Today, Anne is thinking about broaching the subject with her elvhen friend.

The pair stand leaning against a back and hidden outside wall of the armory, partaking a morning break together. Bel’nas casually puffs on dried elfroot rolled in thin paper. He makes an attempt to pass it to Anne, who in turn raises her hands in disapproval, “I’m working, Bel’nas.”

“Yeah? So am I,” he smirks and takes another puff. “Don’t pretend to be all prim-and-proper with me, ma’fenor. I know you too well, now.”

Anne rolls her eyes and exhales sharply through closed lips. “What I do at night is my business, but I don’t know how you can work with that stuff skewing your mind.”

“Same as I do when it’s not.”

“Well, I can just imagine what would happen if my mind is wading through some combination of the fade and reality, and then a noble decides she needs to go-off on me.”

Bel’nas chortles, “It’d probably make it a lot more fun.”

Anne looks at the rolled elfroot hanging between his lips longingly for a moment, and then shakes her head. “No. I won’t let you pull me even farther into your world of debauchery, elf,” she chides.

He smiles, grabs the thin roll of dried herbs from his lips, and delicately runs the burning end along the stone wall behind them. He places the rest safely in a pocket. “Suit yourself.”

She knows he is getting ready to go back into work, and she still hasn’t figured out how to ask him. She doesn’t want to sound insensitive, but most of the women servants are elves. The women in the kitchen have been poisoning the other maids with lies. Yet, Anne still feels guilty about having an issue about it.

“The elvhen women hate me,” she blurts out. She immediately grabs her forehead and sighs, displeased with her lack of tactful control.

Bel’nas laughs and rolls his eyes. He leans his shoulder on the wall so that he faces her. Her back against the stone wall of the building, she pinches the bridge of her nose before rocking the back of her head against the stone. She looks toward the sky, cheeks reddening, not sure where to go from here.

He reaches out and tucks stray hair behind her ear, then flicks its rounded flesh. “That will have a lot to do with it.” He watches her clench her eyes shut in frustration. “Really, it probably has everything to do with it.”

“You’re and elf. You don’t hate me.” She says with a hint of whine to her voice, eyes still firmly shut. “It’s gotten worse since we became friends.”

He hums like he understands, “Mmm, yes. Don’t let those idiots bring you down. They’re just small minded servants.”

Anne raises an eyebrow, opens her eyes just enough to glare, and slowly turns her head to the elf. An expression to warn him about his poor phrasing, “Say, again?”

Not deterred - rather encouraged - by her attitude, he grins and winks at the maid. “You’re not like them, don’t worry. I wouldn’t be your pal if you were.”

“Color me lucky,” she groans, rolling her head back to the sky. “You don’t have to work with them. You don’t have to watch them stare at you with their judgements.”

“Yeah, I do. They think we are intimate. That _really_ pisses them off. I think it’s hilarious.” He snorts, “Some girl walked up to me the other day, after you left the tavern, and told me I was ‘indecent’ for running around with a _shem_.”

Anne snaps her entire body to face Bel’nas. “Did you tell her that you aren’t?!”

“No.”

“Well, why not?”

“I don’t care what the rumors of Skyhold are, and you shouldn’t either. They will come up with something about you no matter what you do. Just embrace it or ignore it.”

“Gee, thanks for your help.” She groans. This was not how she thought this talk would go, granted she wasn’t sure what would happen. She had hoped for a little more insight than to just continue trying to ignore it. However, the announcement that he is being approached by elves, and doing nothing to stop their rumors, is more than a little irritating to Anne.

“I need to head back in, _love_.” He says the last word cheekily, getting a huff and sneer from the maid in response. To rub it all in, he grabs her and makes a show of kissing her cheek.

“You’re an asshole,” she laughs and shoves him away.

\--

Back to work, Anne is bent over the fire in a guest room. Its inhabitant must have been up all night. He burned a great deal of logs; his entire stock pile is gone. A large mess of ash and chunks of burned wood are left for her to clean before she can refresh his hearth for the day. The room was empty when she arrived, which is why she entered. But as she kneels and collects the spent wood and ash, the door to the room opens behind her.

Anne continues her task. She finds that guests prefer she not address them at all when they happen upon her. They favor pretending she does not exist over acknowledging that ‘the help’ is working in the room. Because of this, she does not even look as the man comes in.

She hears him talking; he says that he needs to step in to get some papers before the war meeting.  Anne thinks to herself that this must be someone important if he goes to the war room. She hears him shuffle papers on his desk while she pivots to dump ash into a pale.

Her body goes rigid when she hears the guest’s companion speak. “Anne? Is that you?” the commander asks.

She sits back on her knees, hands calmly placed on her thighs. Anne hasn’t spoken to the commander in weeks. She thought she had moved on from her little crush, but as soon as she hears his voice her entire body is thrown into chaos. Trying to control her jitters quickly, she takes a quiet inhale and a moment to steady herself. She turns her face to the commander and places a pleasant smile between her cheeks. “Hello, Ser,” she bows her head.

He steps closer to her, head tilted, a quizzical expression on his face. “What are you doing working Warden Alistair’s fire? I thought you worked in the kitchens?” He stands straighter. Looking down at her, he crosses his arms, she suddenly feels as if she is being interrogated. The warden comes into view, and stands next to the commander. He stuffs a stack of papers in a leather satchel while silently glancing back and forth between the two people.

“They switched me to hearth and room duty, Ser.”

“What? Why? Isn’t a cinder maid a step _down_?” His eyebrows pinch in the middle, causing a deep crease between them.

“Honest work is honest work, Ser.” She bows her head again. She can’t help but feel embarrassed by the situation as well as feel lower than she has ever felt before. The commander and his warden companion looking down on her and her soot covered hands. She takes one of the many damp clothes she carries with her and nervously wipes her hands clean. Her heart sinks into her gut, she feels ashamed to be kneeling there, dirty and low.

“Hello, I’m Alistair,” the warden smiles and reaches out his hand to shake hers. The idea shocks Anne, but as to not appear rude she stands, rather ungracefully, and takes the warden’s hand.

“Good day, Messere. A pleasure to—”

Commander Cullen cuts her off as if a thought both sprang to mind and burst from his mouth in an instant. “Is this why I haven’t seen you since…” his voice trails off as he comes to and inward realization. “Maker…” he breathes out and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is my doing, isn’t it?”

“No Ser, there is nothing wrong.”

“Who did this to you?” He glares and growls angrily, but not at her.

“Ser…”

“Was it that pretentious head cook?” He looks to the warden and rolls his eyes as he sighs, “Orlesians…” The warden groans and nods in agreement, a shared annoyance for the entire orlesian population.

“Ser...” Anne tries to speak again, to explain that nothing is amiss, that she enjoys her work, and that it was Maker-sent for her to be away from the women in the kitchen.

But he cuts her off, as she is noticing he tends to do. “No. This isn’t right. I will not have you punished for something I did.” He nods earnestly at the maid; He slams his fist down into his palm like a hammer. “I will make this right, Anne. I promise you.”

He turns to leave, marching toward the door. Anne stretches out her arms, an attempt to will him to stop. She stutters and stammers out a protest, but it falls on depth ears. The commander storms out of the room.

The warden stays behind a moment to give Anne and knowing smile and a shrug. “I was once in a position a lot like yours. Don’t worry, I will follow him and make sure he doesn’t make it any worse for you.” He winks at her before exiting the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Anne stands there, arms dropped back to her sides, covered in soot, dazed, and blinking. Wondering what just happened, and what mess this will create for her now.

\--

The maid continued her work throughout the day and into the evening without incident. Upon leaving the Inquisitor’s quarters, his fire wood restocked for the night and logs added to the fire, she walks down the hall contemplating what to do with the rest of her night.

“I know it was you, you little wench,” a noble screeches and speeds up to Anne, finger waving in her face. Anne isn’t sure what was happening, but it is too late. The noble is carrying on, flailing her arms and hollering at the maid. Anne cannot comprehend what the problem even is through the thick accent of the accuser, and its muffled sound behind the woman’s strange Orlesian mask.

“I am sorry Messere, it won’t happen again,” Anne means it as more of a question than anything. Her cheeks flush when she notices all of the eyes directed at her in the hall. She can hear her heart beat in her ears.

“See that it never does!” the woman shrieks before raising her chin high and walking off in a huff.

Anne wants to be anywhere but here. She dips her head low in humiliation, scurrying down the hall to the main doors.

Near the exit is a table, where the dwarf and author Varric Tethras sits daily to work on his manuscripts. The man whispers loudly, “Psst,” in her direction as she hurries closer to the door. She glances over at the man and he continues, “Hey, you… c’mere.” He tilts his head in a beckoning motion and points to the seat in front of him.

She shyly approaches, pulls out the chair and sits. Hands clasped in her lap, she lowers her chin and speaks softly. She is ready for more scolding for things she didn’t do and knows nothing about. “Yes, Ser?”

“Chin up, kid,” his raspy deep voice sounds kind and cheerful. She raises her eyes to his, finding him smiling at her. “You’re always better off telling a really good lie,” he winks at her.

All of the color immediately falls from her face. “Lie? Oh no, Messere! I would never, I promise!”

“Whoa, relax,” he pushes his palms toward her as if to settle her nerves through soothing energy pulsating from his fingers. “I just mean, that when these nobles get to you like that, you should think on your toes. Come up with a story to shut them up. Then they will leave you alone.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh, slumps her shoulders forward, and rolls her eyes. “I don’t even know what she was mad about.”

Varric chuckles deep in his chest, “None of us do.” He quirks his eyebrow at her, “Say, I’ve seen you around Skyhold. You always have a dusting of grey ash on you, but you still manage to flutter around here gracefully… in an awkward sort of way.

Anne lets out an uncontrolled snort, but quickly covers her mouth with her hand as an apology for the outburst. “You think I’m gracefully awkward?” she grins behind her fingers. What a peculiar assessment. She rather likes it.

“It’s kind of precious, actually. You could use that to your advantage, you know. Just need to work on your quick thinking and story making skills. Do you play wicked grace?”

Anne shakes her head and worries her eyes. “Oh no Ser, I don’t gamble.”

“Well you’re going to start. Meet me in the tavern in about an hour. I’m going to teach you everything you need to know about lying,” the dwarf coughs and adjusts his jacket, “I mean…  _bluffing_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I haven't posted in a while, things have been getting kind of hectic at home. I think everything will relax again after the holidays :)


	6. Episode 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne meets Varric in the tavern to gamble with a few of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew! Long time coming for this chapter. After the holidays, my job became considerably more busy. I don't have as much time to write as I did, and for now I will be focusing my efforts on writing In Love, Serenity. So, if you enjoy my writing and want more of it, I suggest checking that out. 
> 
> Also, if you are on tumblr, every Friday night I participate in "Drunk Writing Circle" - I fulfill a lot of writing prompts about Anne and Cullen during that time. Check it out! I'm @ladydracarysao3

 

Anne sits nervously in the Herald’s Rest, waiting for Master Tethras to return to the table. She plays with her fingernails, anxiously scraping the soot out from underneath. All the while, she taps the heel of her boot and bounces her knee like a jittery fennec. She’s not sure why she is here, why she even came.

“Listen Sugars, you need to relax,” Master Tethras beams a radiating smile as he slides into the seat next to her, carrying with him two large mugs of unknown alcohol.

“What… what is this, Ser?” she asks tentatively. Taking an offered mug, she sniffs its amber hued contents suspiciously.

“The good stuff,” he winks at her before taking a drink from his. He gulps it down and smiles, nodding his head in encouragement for her to try it. “It’s Dwarven ale. Only the best quality for our ventures tonight.”

She cautiously brings the drink to her lips and takes a sip. It has a pleasant bitterness about it, stronger than the Ferelden ale she is used to, but she likes that. She never cared much for ale, but the flavor of this is full bodied, yet still easy to drink. She enjoys it immensely.

She smiles, shyly giggling, “Master Tethras, this is delicious. Thank you very much”

“I don’t know how you can stand to be so sweet all of the time, Sugars. Call me Varric, no need for the formality.” He pulls a deck of  cards from the pocket of his jacket. Sorting through the stack, he looks to find any that face the wrong direction.

“That wouldn’t be prudent, Ser.” She says respectfully. She holds her large wooden mug in her hands, strumming her thumb over ridges a metal decal provides.

“Nothing we are doing here tonight is _prudent_. Just relax and try to have a good time.”

She muses his invitation to unwind around someone of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. A man famous all over Thedas due to his adventures and the stories he pens. She’s not sure how she could possibly do as he requests, but perhaps she will try. He is being so kind in wanting to spend his evening with her, after all. Perhaps she can attempt to have a good time, as if he is just another one of Skyhold’s workers, rather than its finest.

She hears his voice before she sees him. His rich Ferelden accent, rolling nearby. He says something about trebuchets that causes another deep voice to laugh in a raspy and oddly annunciated way. She watches as Commander Rutherford comes into view from around a thick wooden beam near her table. She feels the color immediately vacate her face, a cold sweat developing on her skin. He couldn’t be here for whatever the author has planned for her, could he?

She nervously observes three men, the Commander, Warden Allistair, and the source of the raspy deep laughter, Warden Blackwall, as they approach the barkeep and order a few drinks. Varric also watches the group as he shuffles the deck of cards beside her. He waves at Warden Alistair when the ginger-haired man glances around the tavern. The warden smiles and returns the wave in acknowledgment. He nudges the commander standing beside him, says something Anne cannot hear, and points in her direction. The Commander, smiling, turns to see Anne’s pale cheeks and wide eyes staring back at him, horrified. Upon recognizing her, he looks a little shocked, as well.

This is not a good sign.

“Looks like our friends will be joining us soon,” Varric says.

Incredulously, Anne murmurs to her companion, “You want me to gamble with two wardens and the commander of the Inquisition?” Her voice cracks. Anne blinks wildly, her eyes still glued to the three intimidating men across the room, wondering if she is dreaming. Maybe if she blinks enough this will all go away.

“Oh trust me, they were our best option. Those guys are the most chivalrous men Skyhold. Not only will they let you win their coin, they will lose to you with a smile,” Varric jests, nudging her with his elbow.

Confounded, she watches as the three men receive their drinks and approach the table. This is probably her worst nightmare. She _thought_ dropping the commander’s meal was the worst thing that could have happened. But sitting at a table with four of the most important men in Skyhold for an evening - as they teach her how to _gamble_ \- that has to be the most terrifying, awkward, and terrible idea she’s ever heard. She’s honestly surprised the Inquisitor himself wasn’t invited to this ridiculous event.

“Hello, Anne!” Warden Alistair grins a warm toothy smile as he sits across and down one seat from her at the table. “I didn’t know it was you who was learning wicked grace tonight. What a treat!” Seeing the man so directly, she notices how friendly and lovely his eyes are. Warm, shining hazel, with soft laugh lines creasing out from their corners. His good nature actually starts to calm her nerves, until she looks to the man sitting directly across from her.

The commander.

Her heart skips a beat. His intense whiskey colored stare chills her to the core and pools nervousness in her gut. “Hello, Anne. Have you met Warden Blackwall?” He asks and gestures to the raven haired man now sitting at the end of the table.

“No, Ser,” she says meekly. She bows her head to the warden, “A pleasure to meet you, Warden Blackwall.”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, milady,” he smiles at her through a thick, black beard. His grey-blue eyes sparkle as he looks to Varric and laughs, “Tethras, this is the young woman you wish to ‘roughen up’?”

Varric begins dealing the cards. He only deals one pile between Anne and himself, intending that they share while she learns the game. “Sugars here needs to learn how to use her assets. She’s far too sweet for me to witness nobles walk all over her any longer. I want to teach her some cunning tactics. Coax out the fire that I have a feeling is hidden under this modest exterior you are viewing at the moment.”

Her face blushes. She covers the evidence with the fingers of her right hand, hiding herself and her embarrassment from the entire situation. Varric chuckles and gestures a thumb toward her, “See? What’d I tell ya?”

“I’m not sure I agree with the idea of trying to change her, I think Anne is fine how she is,” the Commander says as he shifts in his seat, straightening and lengthening his back. Anne glances at him, but upon receiving his golden, amber stare in turn, she quickly lets her eyes fall back to the table. She timidly grabs her mug of ale and drinks from it, preoccupying both hands with its heavy cylindrical shape.

“We aren’t _changing_ her, Curly. We are broadening her horizons,” the dwarf speaks in proud assurance.

“How do you feel about all of this, milady?” Warden Blackwall asks. The first time anyone has asked her what she thinks of any of this, a fact that almost stuns her.

She clears her throat and sits a little taller, “It’s a little intimidating, Ser, if I am honest.”

“Just think of it as a game with friends, because that’s all this really is, isn’t it?” Warden Alistair winks at her. She softly smiles and dips her head slightly. He is so nice. Perhaps if she just focuses on him and his kind eyes, she can get through this.

“That’s a lovely thought, Ser,” she responds, a soft blush still creeping on her cheeks.

“Okay, Anne. First of all, call me Alistair. I won’t be involved in the dismantling of a young lady’s innocence, all the while she calls me Ser. I draw the line there.” He grins, grabbing his tankard of ale, he lifts and reaches it across the table in her direction. A bidding for her to do the same, “What do ya say, friend?”

She giggles and lightly taps her mug against his. “I will try… Alistair.” She takes a healthy drink of the dwarven ale, the warden’s name feeling strange on her tongue.

Once the cards are dealt, Varric explains the basic rules of wicked grace to her. Alistair adds a few silly quips of nonsense throughout the explanation. The only one at the table finding them at all humorous is Anne. She chuckles and giggles with each joking comment. Every single time. Cullen side eyes the warden on more than one occasion, a slightly dour and gruff expression on his face.

By the time explanation is over, and Anne has asked all questions that came to mind, the group has had enough ale and discussion for everyone to loosen up a little. Even Anne. She focuses her attention mainly on everyone but the commander. Every time she glances at him, she loses her train of thought and the nervousness threatens to return. So, she opts to avoid it as much as possible.

Varric slyly whispers strategy in her ear as they play. Pointing out little tricks to determine if the others are bluffing. Encouragements designed to get her to trick her opponants. Eventually, she gets the hang of the game enough that Varric begins to play for himself, leaving her to judge her course on her own. If she is honest with herself, she is having a great time. Two mugs of ale into the evening, they up the stakes and start making bets, she finds it thrilling.

The group travels along different topics of conversation as they play. She listens to a small debate on war tactics between the wardens and the commander, first. Varric then adds to the conversation with the difference of writing a good battle scene, versus actually participating in one. All the while, Anne stays pleasantly quiet. Enjoying the learning experience of not only the game, but the topics the men discuss around her.

Of course, it couldn’t stay that peaceful for long. Why would it? To assume as much would be daft. However hopeful she was that she could continue to fly under their radar. Simply enjoy their company.

“So, my darling Anne, where are you from?” Alistair asks during a lull in conversation.

“I was born and raised in Honnleath,” she answers.

“Say, isn’t that where you are from, Curly?” Varric holds his cards to his chest in his left hand and leans in on the table with his right elbow.

“Indeed,” the commander states flatly, not raising his eyes from the cards in play.

“Oh that is interesting, did you two know each other?” Alistair’s voice is bright, an easy friendliness Anne is beginning to truly adore about him.

The commander stretches an arm back to rub the back of his neck. “No, I believe she would have been too young by the time I left for the Templars. Plus, my family moved to South Reach during the blight.”

“I was in Honnleath briefly during the blight, I hope you were not in the area at the time, Anne.” Alistair furrows his light, auburn brows. His large, hazel eyes worry at her.

“I was not,” she smiles, obviously setting his mind at ease due to the return of his normal, pleasant expression, and a relaxed sigh. She continues softly as she places a card on the table, “I fled to Jader.”

“How did you do that?” Blackwall interjects the conversation, scratching his head, “This is the fifth round in a row that you’ve won!”

Proud of herself, she scoops up the few coins waiting for her at the center of the table. “I’ve always been fairly talented in games of strategy.” She makes a smug show of perfectly and precisely stacking each new coin to her growing collection.

The commander grunts, but it a way of competition rather than displeasure, “I think I am on to you now, Anne. I see what strategy you are playing.”

Feeling confident in her many wins, as well as owning a strengthened courage, thanks to the delicious Dwarven ale, she looks the commander in his gleaming, posturing eyes. “Is that so, Commander?” She smirks while playfully biting the inside of her cheek. He returns her expression, the curious scar on his lip quirking to the left. “Bring it on, then,” she coos.

“Consider it brought, my lady,” he grins.

Alistair, Blackwall, and Varric all fold on the hand, opting to instead watch the two in a fierce stand-off of cunning wit. Round after round of bets placed are ultimately pushed into the servant’s ever growing pile of victory.

“I knew that I was right about you. There is much more to Anne then what you let people see,” Varric exclaims. “You should really let this spunk come out when dealing with your charges throughout the day.”

“Or, I should continue to keep it under wraps if I’d like to keep my job,” she winks at the dwarf. “But I suppose I can work on having a little more confidence in my daily life. Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” She looks at the dwarf earnestly, “Thank you for inviting me out tonight, I’ve had a great time.”

“And you’ve made yourself richer!” Alistair laughs, gesturing to her winnings. “What are you going to do with all of that coin, Anne? Have any plans?”

She smiles softly at the redhead, “I will be sending it home, as I do with most of what I earn.” The men look at her quizzically. Before Alistair can ask the question she knows is on his mind, she changes the focus. Placing her last card of the evening, she wins against the Commander yet again.

“I believe you lose, Commander. At this point, you will have to start betting your lovely armor. But I don’t think I can strip the Inquisition of its commander’s protection.” She glances at Varric with a grin before continuing, “Wouldn’t be prudent.”


	7. Episode 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Forgive my absence, it's been a long couple of months. However, I'm back and with a new chapter! Huzzah!! 
> 
> Those that read the prompts I've filled for these two on Tumblr have known for a little while that trouble was brewing... well... this is what happened. Enjoy?

 

It was a little hard to wake this morning. Anne’s dalliances with the finer men of Skyhold had her out later than she was used to. She was a bit sluggish as she blearily tended to the early morning fires on her roster. She worked in a slow pace, mind wandering to the night before.

That fair-haired warden sure was friendly, funny too. He made her feel so at ease with his jokes and… possibly… overly-friendly disposition. Varric was certainly an approachable fellow. How kind of him to want her to feel more comfortable in the keep. Why he would even care… it seems odd to her… but she appreciates his kind efforts nonetheless. The other warden seemed a nice man as well, even if he was perhaps a bit intimidating with his robust personality. He was not nearly as intimidating as the Commander.

He had appeared so dour throughout most of the evening. But… that look in his eyes after a couple of drinks. Anne flushes at the thought, almost spilling a bucket of ash on the floor from being more in her own thoughts than her current task. The mere thought of his gaze makes her tremble both in fear and… something else…

She dumps her bucket of ash and spent bits of log in its proper place - an outside pile for the grounds men to add to their garden and potting soil - before heading to wash up as best as she can. It’s time to see what other tasks Elsa has for the maid today.

After attempting to clean the soot from her nails as best as she can, an futile mission as soot always manages to grab hold in places - the dark, grey-black stains will always be a part of her - she makes her way through the halls of the keep to the head housekeeper’s office. She enters quietly, as is her way, and stands to the side of the desk, clasping her hands at her front, she patiently waits for the busy woman to acknowledge her.

Elsa sits at her desk, reading through notes, making a few markings on them with her quill, and then placing them in designated, organized stacks in front of her. After a few rotations of this ritual, she looks up at the quiet maid standing in the room. Elsa sighs, folding her hands in front of her and on top of remaining note cards. She looks to Anne with a slight irritation in her expression that conjures a pit in the maid’s stomach. What has she done now? Is Elsa displeased with her morning’s pace?

Elsa stares the girl down for a few long, excruciating moments, contemplating the girl and what she wishes to say. Elsa drops her shoulders and huffs a sharp breath before speaking, “Oh, Anne. I didn’t realize you were so unhappy. You know you should have come to me. You didn’t need to trouble the Commander. He has far more important things to do than to deal with the placement of servants.”

“Excuse me, Messere?” Anne is deeply perplexed. The pit in her stomach grows. What on earth is Elsa speaking of?

“The Commander came in here last night, on a rampage about you being ‘ripped from the kitchens and made to wallow in the dirt.’ He demanded that you be placed back in the service of Donatien.”

“I swear, I said nothing. Messere, you need not send me back there, I enjoy my new position, truly!” Anne pleads. How could this be happening? She never asked the Commander… oh… he had found her in the warden’s hearth the prior morning. He really _had_ come to Elsa about it. Anne assumed Alistair stopped him when she hadn’t heard anything throughout the day. Apparently, she was wrong.

“No matter the reason for him come in here and yell at me the way he did, it’s on you now,” Elsa scowls. “He apparently finds you quite special, and in that case, I informed Donatien to keep you as the Commander’s personal server. Since you seemed to desire to be so close to the man, you can bring him his meals and tend to his needs… _exclusively._ ” Elsa’s words hit like a striking viper, the venom spreads through Anne’s blood, causing her to feel panic and dizziness. “And when not tending to Ser Cullen, you will prep the food for the mess.”

Shit. That’s a lot of peeling potatoes. Surely she will now have cuts and blood stains to match the forever-soot on her skin. Anne’s eyes drop to the floor. “I’m very sorry--”

“Save it, Anne,” the housekeeper snaps. “Just get your ass to the kitchen. I’m certain your charge is waiting for his breakfast.”

Without another sound, Anne turns to leave the office. Tired feet falling in slow, depressed succession, she enters the kitchen with her head hung low. The frown on her pouty lips only deepens as she hears the girls whisper and sneer in her direction. She feels the emotional press of tears in her eyes, dreading how life will be with the women that seem to hate her more and more at every turn.

“About time you arrived. I trust Elsa told you everything,” Donatien addresses her with the disdain that could make an Orlesian noble cringe. He points to a tray on the prep station. “There is the Commander’s breakfast. When you return, start peeling and cubing that pile of potatoes over there,” he points to a massive pile of the root vegetable in a dark corner of the room as sounds of snicker women surround her. “Now, take it and go.”

Anne says nothing. She solemnly lifts the tray and walks out the back door of the kitchen and into the lower courtyard. She stares down at the tray while she walks to the battlement tower. She watches steam billow from a bowl of rapidly cooling oatmeal. Small bits of apple have been stirred in, along with specs of seasoning, probably cinnamon. The aroma is quiet pleasant, actually. Along with the bowl is a small glass of what is probably apple juice, and a small vial. She has never seen a vial like this placed on anyone’s tray before. She wonders what it could be, it is too small and strangely colored to be anything related to food.

Upon arrival, she braces the tray with one arm and knocks on the door to the Commander’s office. She doesn’t want to chance another flying box of surprise and humiliation. When she hears him call out to enter, she eases her way into the room, careful to keep the tray perfectly level.

“I have your breakfast, Commander,” she says, her meek voice, a soft whisper of shame and embarrassment.

“Anne!” he exclaims enjoyably, but she does not lift her head to see him. She hears him shuffle papers around on his desk as she approaches. “Good morning,” he says. Anne remains silent as she rests the tray back on one arm, delicately placing the components of his meal in front of him, one-by-one. She quietly backs away and holds the edge of the tray in her hands, letting it fall limp and parallel to her body. She studies the stone floor, eyes tracing the veins in the rock like tributaries of a hard mineral river.

“I’m glad to see you are no longer on your knees in the dirt, however they could have at least given you a new frock to wear.” Anne glances at her skirts and the permanent black smudges that adorn them. “Is everything alright?” he asks, a worried edge to his tone.

“It’s fine Ser. You really shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of--”

He cuts her off while stirring the fruit, spice, and oats in his bowl, “Nonsense, you deserve better. After all, it was my outburst that lead you to the position in the first place.” He blows on a spoonful of oatmeal before consuming.

Anne feels a flare of anger burst through her body. Her fingers grip the metal edge of the tray with an intensity that causes her already pale, white skin to appear even whiter. “I was well pleased with my--”

As if he didn’t hear her speaking, or perhaps didn’t care, Commander swallows, and cuts her off again, “I am pleased to see you today. Did you enjoy yourself last night? I dare say I would like to opportunity to win back my coin, but I have a feeling you would only take the rest.” He smiles at her, but she is seething.

Every moment of dismissal, every time he talks over her - as if her opinions of her own life and station are of no concern to him - every single time he thinks his actions are well-intentioned, yet steam-roll over her, is like a blacksmith clanging against red hot metal. The hammer smashes down on her, trying to force her into submission, but like sparks of smelted-red that fly through the air with every hit, Anne is furious. Burning ire rises within her and she can’t control its molten core any longer. Perhaps it is because they briefly dropped their guards with each other the night before, perhaps it is the thoughts of the embarrassment and shame that wait for her in the snickering, judgemental kitchen every single day now, perhaps she has just had enough of feeling insignificant. No matter the reason, she snaps.

“Stop cutting me off!” she screams and his face flies into shock.

“Anne, I’m sor—”

“No! Stop talking. For one single minute, stop dismissing me!” She is shaking with anger and terror, both. A small, urgent voice within her desperately tries to call her back from her fit, but she’s gone now. Off her rocker. She can’t stop the quick, hateful words that spit from her mouth, no matter how much she regrets them as soon as they are born to air. “Ever since I met you, Ser, you have done nothing but try to set into my affairs. You care nothing for how I actually feel. Why?! Why do you step in for me?! Does it make you feel gallant? Do you think you are saving the poor wretched mouse? You’re not!”

A flash of irritation washes over the Commander and his face falls. A deep frown with complimentary angry brows form tense, annoyed lines on his face. “Now wait just a minute, Anne. I never dismiss—“

“Oh yes you did. Every time I open my mouth you are over there with your… your…” She lifts her chin and flippantly points at him, one accusatory finger gliding through the air along the shape of his form. “Commanding bullshit! You talk to me as if I’m just another one of your underlings to order around. You don’t care what I want, you only care what makes you feel accomplished. Well, you’ve done it now. Because you felt the need to yell at the head housekeeper, she’s made me your personal server. But just because I have to serve you, doesn’t mean I have to talk to you, _or you to me_.” She pauses a moment in her tirade, chest heaving rapidly from her over exerted emotions. “And don’t you dare go back into that office, or the kitchens, or even to Josephine to say anything you think is on my behalf. It’s not! I never asked for any of this! But you never cared to listen.” She stops. Is she done? As sudden as the anger swept her, it seems to have vanished. She stares at him, his glare piercing through her as fiercely as his blade.

“If that is what you want,” he says tersely, crossing his arms.

There’s no turning back now, she did it. She screamed and ranted to the Commander of the Inquisition. “It is,” she responds with an indignant lift of her chin. “Now, if his highness is pleased, I have a pile of potatoes as large are you, to peel.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says and stares flatly. She makes her way to the office door that would send her back in the direction of the kitchen. Before she completely exits he adds, in a low commanding tone, “Don’t forget to come back for these bloody dishes, later.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Messere,” she slings back over her shoulder before shutting the door a little too roughly. A slamming sound that causes guards lining and patrolling the rampart walls to turn and stare at her. But she’s out. She’s out of the heat in that office. As the brisk mountain air fills her lungs, she panics, and races down the battlement steps.

What in the void had she been thinking? She just created an enemy of the Commander. The very man she is now stuck with seeing multiple times a day. He had even been smiling at her, tried to make pleasant conversation. And to what end? To get his head chewed off by a lowly servant girl?! She’s really done it this time.

So much for feeling more comfortable in Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you weren't aware, I created another work based on this story. It's the "bonus features." I will be placing prompts that I fill for these two crazy kids there from now on. There is already one there that is the requested Cullen viewpoint from the night of Wicked Grace.
> 
> [The Skyhold Abbey Bonus features can be found here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9331550/chapters/21143519)


	8. Episode 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Anne's explosion is not a pleasant one...

 

From then on, Anne feels irrevocably awkward around the Commander. She’s not sure how she did it, how she let those words spew from her treacherous lips, but she did. Oh boy, did she do it.

Day after day, Anne brings him his meals. She sets down everything gently and stands to the side, holding her tray, waiting for any further instructions. Most of the time he flits his hand at her in dismissal. Other times, he gives her a small task such as fetching one of his messengers or relaying a message herself. During none of these occurrences, not once, not _ever_ , does he make eye contact with Anne. Instead, the Commander sits with a sheet of vellum in hand, eyes scanning it as he speaks, or he fixes his gaze on the meal she’d placed before him. His tone is always terse… _professional_ ... but always, _always_ cold.

Every word he speaks… or for that matter, every word he does _not_ speak… makes her guilt grow. A cold sweat torments her on the back of her neck. Nausea plagues her gut. She is so ashamed of herself for behaving as she did. She wishes so deeply that she could take it all back, but she fears broaching the subject would only make it worse. She is a servant. The low. The little people. She had no right to address him in such a manner. He has every right, as her superior, to treat her as he sees fit.

And now…

Now, she hangs her head low, dreading every day. She ignores the women who pick on her in the kitchens. She says nothing more than she has to, to anybody. When her daily work ends, she retires to her bed where she reads or draws to escape her life. She thinks of leaving Skyhold often, but she needs this position. Her family needs her and it is so hard to find work with the state Thedas is in. No. She has to stay. She cannot go home with her tail between her legs as a failure.

For days she’s been trapped in this dismal rotation. Each day she feels a little better - better as in she feels more accustomed to the situation she’s stuck herself in, anyway.

On this morning, she carries his tray across the grounds, staring at the small vial of purple liquid next to his hot oats. Every day there is a similar vial. Every day he takes it and places it in a drawer of his desk. Once she asked Donatein what it was, _like a fool_ , and he snapped at her to mind her own business.

With a heavy sigh, she opens the massive door of the Commander’s office. The routine is old hat now, gone are the days of struggling with tray balancing and door opening.

Life’s small victories.

When she enters, however, the Commander isn’t at his desk. He’s always at his desk. Always. Anne is certain he rises before dawn every day to begin his work. But today he’s not there. She wonders if perhaps there was an early war council meeting, it seems a logical assumption. She places his meal and vial on his desk and decides to run back to retrieve a dome to place over his hot food and protect its heat. As she reaches for the handle to the office door, however, she hears an odd sound.

Anne stills herself and keens her ears. There it is again, it is faint, but she hears it. A soft moaning… or maybe groaning is a better term… followed by the sounds of thrashing. Anne is frozen, not sure what this means or where it is coming from at first. But the sounds increase in volume and violence when she realizes it is coming from above her. The noise is carried through and down the hole in the ceiling where a ladder extends from an upper loft.

The Commander’s quarters.

Anne stares slack-jawed up the ladder, eyes wide and mind blank. What does she do? Should she go up there? The fervency of the sounds continue to increase and she decides to meekly call up, “C-C-Commander?” When a moan is the only response, try tries again, a little louder, “Commander? Are… Are you alright? Should I get you help?”

When the only response she receives is more of the same, she darts her eyes around the room nervously, as if there is anyone standing there to help her. She shakes her daft head and decides she has to climb the blasted ladder. So up she goes, one rung at a time. She really hates ladders. Absolutely despises them. It’s not the heights that scare her, is the worry that she will slip and fall. She prefers her heights appreciated with two feet firmly on the ground, _thank you_.

It’s terrifying, but she makes it to the top. She - rather ungracefully - stumbles off the last rung and onto the wooden slats of the loft’s floor. She wipes herself off and peaks down the hole to the stone floor far, far below, already dreading how she will get down without falling to her death… or at least severe injury.

The sound of shuddering snatches her mind back to reality, there was a reason for this climb, after all. She turns her attention to the man on the bed. Commander Cullen is thrashing and shivering and sweating on his bed. His eyes squeezed shut, and mouth murmuring words so incoherently that she hasn’t a clue what they are.

Anne races to his side, only slightly freaking out about the fact that he is lying there shirtless. Okay, that’s a lie, she is _heavily_ freaking out that he is lying there shirtless, but there’s nothing she can do about that now. She gapes at his glistening body, the sweat giving his muscles a sheen that makes her swallow hard like she swallowed an apple whole.

“Commander…” she squeaks, positioning her hand in a way that looks like she might nudge his shoulder, but she is too frightened to follow through. “Commander? Commander, wake up.” Her voice is high and raspy, panic setting in as she watches the man experience what she guesses must be a night terror. She hopes it’s just a night terror.

When he doesn’t wake, she takes a deep breath and musters the courage to touch his shoulder. His perfectly muscled… musky… chiseled… shoulder… “Commander?” _Wow_ , his muscles are firm. So firm. And his skin is… soft. She shakes her head, clearing her terrible thoughts. Now is not the time to get hung up on this man’s physique.

With newfound resolve and a worry for him growing in her gut, she places a hand on either shoulder. Leaning over him, she shakes him hard and yells, “Commander Rutherford! You need to wake up!”

The Commander startles awake, eyes flying open and looking right at her, though they aren’t focused. A fraction of a second later he grunts and scowls. Before she can back away, he grabs her arms and flips her body over him. She flies through the air, shrieking the whole way, as he pins her down on the mattress, his hulking body now hovering over her.

She trembles under him, a look of pure horror on her face as he glares at her. Breathing hard through clenched teeth, his chest expands greatly with each heavy, agitated breath, and his eyes slowly come into focus. She watches realization crash into his face and he backs away, inching himself down the bed.

“Maker… Anne… I’m so sorry,” he says, pressing his forehead into his palm and shaking his head. “I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me, I didn’t know it was you.” He squeezes his eyes shut and moves his hand to the back of his neck.

“It’s alright,” Anne says in a soft whisper. She sits up, scooting her back against the headboard and bringing her knees to her chest, effectively guarding and putting distance between herself and the Commander. “Are you alright? You seemed to be having a fit. I wasn’t sure what to do…”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head again. With a grimace, he attempts to rise to his feet, but immediately loses balance and topples back onto the bed with a groan. Anne outstretches her arm as if that would help him, far away and weak as it is…

“Is there something I can do?” she asks, angling herself to slide off the bed.

“Yes…” he says, pinching his forehead and panting. “In my desk, there are purple vials. Top drawer to the left.” He points at a small ring of keys on his bedroom side table. “The small black one will open it. Bring a vial.” His speech is strained and his chest heaves. “Quickly..”

Anne bursts from the bed, swiping the keys as she flies, and then races down the ladder - no concern or thought for her fear. She races to the desk and is about to unlock the drawer when she sees the vial she had brought this morning. She looks back and forth panicky for a moment, but when she hears a groan from above, she swipes the new vial and races back up the ladder.

“Here, Ser. From today’s supply.” She hands him the vial and places his keys back on his bedside table.

“Thank you, Anne,” he says, uncorking the vial with his teeth. He spits the cork across the room before tipping his head back and consuming the purple contents. He lets out a long, heavy sigh before pivoting and laying back on the bed, his shoulders and head bent against the headboard.

“Should I fetch a healer, Commander?”

He raises his hand in protest. “No, no,” he says, “I will be alright in a few minutes. Once this potion kicks in.”

Anne stands there awkwardly, unsure of what she should do next, and trying desperately not to look at him or his gorgeous body sprawled out on the bed. She may have made an ass of herself in front of the man, but she’s still a woman, she still has eyes.

She looks around everywhere else instead of the bed. There are tattered and broken boards strewn about the floor, and she notices a large hole in his ceiling. The morning sun streams in, along with a rather large branch of brightly colored yellow and orange leaves from a tree outside. She furrows her brow and wonders why, of all things, the Inquisition's Commander has a room in such disrepair. Even her quarters is nicer than this - and that’s not saying much.

“I didn’t want to trouble the builders to fix it. There are more important things the Inquisition should spend its resources on than my roof,” he says as if reading her thoughts. She snaps her head back to him, finding him still lying there, hunched against his headboard, but with a handsome, lopsided grin. “Besides,” he continues, “I enjoy the cool breeze at night.”

“But… What if that is causing you to fever… and then causing night terrors…” her voice trails off.

“That’s not the source of what ails me.” Anne opens her mouth to respond but fails to find the words. “Don’t worry,” he adds, his smile evening out slightly.

Her eyes are locked on his now, she can’t pull away. She hasn’t seen him smile at her since just before she snapped at him. And now… seeing his grin while he’s… _shirtless_ , and lying on a bed - of all Maker damned scenarios to which she could find this man half naked - she can’t help but stare. She is sure her eyes are gaping wide, and she feels a flush heat up her face. Her eyes drift lower than his chin for a half of a second before she snaps them back up - chastising herself inwardly and biting her lip.

“If you would be so kind…” he says as he points to a small wooden chair across the room. Draped over the back is a simple linen tunic. She feels her cheeks burn deeper, he saw her momentary lapse in judgment. Now she’s not only yelled at the man, she’s ogled him and his… _bits_.

Anne grabs the shirt and hands it to the Commander. Their fingers brush against each other, just as they did that first day she met him. They both pause, for the briefest of moments. Eyes connecting, a shiver shoots down her legs and Anne gasps a soft, sharp inhale through her nose.

“Thank you.” He leans up enough to slip the shirt over his head and arms before laying back down.

Anne’s fingers fiddle with her skirts nervously. Her eyes study the flooring. “Would you like me to bring up your breakfast, Ser?” she asks, even though she has no idea how she would accomplish such a task with that steep ladder.

“No, that’s quite alright. Thank you, Anne.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to fetch a healer?”

“I’m sure. In fact, I’m starting to feel better already. I... uhh..” Her eyes rise back to his as he stumbles for his words. “I get migraines sometimes. The healers put together those little potions for me to help with the side effects. Sometimes…” His hand pulls at the muscle connecting shoulder to neck. “Sometimes they start while I dream and lock me in a night terror. I’m very sorry you had to see that.”

She considers how terrible his affliction must be since he’s given a new potion daily… “Don’t be sorry, Ser. I’m… glad I was here to help,” she says softly.

Her heart flutters wildly as he smiles again, a light shimmer in his amber eyes, “Me too.”

She stands there, frozen and clueless until he clears his throat. He sits up and rolls his neck. “I suppose I should let you get back to your duties, Anne. Will I… see you at lunch?”

Of course he will, what kind of question… “Yes, Commander.” She bows her head with a curtsey before turning to descend the ladder once again.

As if possessed by a spirit, perhaps one of compassion, she spins around. “Commander?”

“Yes?”

“I’m really sorry… truly… I am so deeply sorry for…” her voice trails off as her nerve disappears.

He looks back at her pleasantly, that soft smile causing pretty flowers to bloom and then explode violently in her chest. “I am as well. Perhaps we can start over? Wipe the slate clean?”

“Of course, Ser,” she smiles shyly, nodding her head.

A sense of relief washes over her as Anne descends the ladder. It was a bizarre morning, because of course it was, but at least maybe they can move past her outburst now. As long as she can still look him in the eyes after seeing him half naked... in his bed... sweaty... and panting...

Perhaps she should stop by the bathhouse before returning to work. 

That might be a good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a little shirtless trauma to bring people back together!
> 
> I'll just leave you with an image of vulnerable Cullen shirtless on his bed....


	9. Episode 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back with another installment! How is life with Anne after that morning in Cullen's loft? Let's find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thank you to everyone who supports this silly little tale. Your comments and requests for more did not go unnoticed, and I truly appreciate them. 
> 
> I thought I needed to turn this into a true 'story' and had the hardest time coming up with an outline for it. But you know what? When I started this, it was supposed to be a series of 2 (or so) chapter vignettes. I think trying to push it into something else was my downfall. So, I'm throwing caution to the wind and going back to my 2 chapter vignettes setting, and we will let the characters tells us where we will go, how we will get there, and when we are done. How'bout that, eh?

 

 

As the weeks pass by, Anne tends to the needs of the Commander without issue. They’ve set up a bit of a routine, even exchange a little banter, and Anne even dares to feel a friendship grow between them. Granted, she still blushes many times when their eyes meet, and she can still find herself intimidated by his size and importance, but ever since that day in his loft, there has been a sense of ease growing between the two of them.

His laugh makes her glow. It is so rich and sometimes...dare she think.. _bubbly?_ She feels her cheeks rosy anytime she hears it, and hopes to hear it again soon.

However, an impending march across Orlais causes that laughter of his dull, all but vanishing as soon as it had appeared. His days grow longer and and his skin pales. When Anne comes to retrieve his dishes after his meals, they are mostly left untouched. Instead, he continues to hover over reports, and missives, and plans. He makes more and more frequent trips to the war room, leaving Anne bewildered when she enters his office and finds him no where around. She worries for him, reminded of the fitful way he sleeps. She worries and frets that he pushes himself too hard. But while their rapport had improved, she is in no way in a position to mention her concern for the man. He is still her superior. It is not her place to suggest he does anything wrong. With how long it took for her to get to the level of comfort that she is with him, she dares not send herself backward. Back to the foul days of disdain all due to overstepping her bounds... again.

She’s learned her lesson on that, for sure.

She does take a small bit of comfort - though miniscule, it is all she can afford herself - in knowing that she can lay eyes on him throughout the day. If he were to fall prey to his own fatigue and stubbornness, she rests somewhat easier knowing that she may find him soon enough to intervene.

That is until the march across a foreign country calls him away.

With the Commander and his army now gone to fight a battle - rumored to be overrun with demons - Anne finds herself fretting ever more. She is sent to different tasks often, now that her days are freed by the Commander’s absence. She is scolded and punished and yelled at on more than one occasion for her day dreaming. She is oft discovered staring up at the sky and wondering where he is, how he is, if he is eating, if he is sleeping, if he is well, or...the menace of all invading and troublesome thoughts...if he will return.

When the latter seizes her mind, it is hard to think of much else. The difficulty dealing with the emotions it brings is alarming. Of course, she wishes no harm brought to any of the men and women that fight in Orlais, but it is that one man, that one particular man with his whiskey colored eyes and effervescent laugh that has her bewitched in a haze of dread and worry.

The alarming part is that it has become quite difficult for her to deny the feelings she has for him, though she tries. Oh, does she try. But it is obvious that this little crush of hers has gotten out of hand. It is vexing and absurd...and unfortunately, so very undeniable.

“Anne!” a voice screams, rather frantic, and Anne is immediately pulled from her reflection as she watches a fellow servant run down the steps from the kitchen’s back door.

She had found herself a quiet spot next to the stables, where she sat atop a barrel and fidgeted with straw while staring into the sky, watching the birds fly by, and thinking about the Commander. As soon as she sees Ethan running for her, and a pit settles in her stomach. As of late she was assigned to see to a very fussy Orlesian Noble’s every whim.

“You are used to serving a particular person, a noble should be no different,” Head Housekeeper Elsa had said to her dryly, not even looking up from her papers while Anne stood in her office. “The Lady Ambassador demands this noble have ‘round the clock care, and I think you are just the maid to do it. Off you go. Madame Deschamps mustn't be kept waiting.”

Anne hides a groan under her breath to the thought of what her charge could possibly want now. To describe the woman as _trying_ would be a severe understatement, and she counts the days until the woman returns from whence she came.

“Andraste’s ass, Anne!” Ethan sputters through heavy breath. He doubles over, holding himself up by leaning his hands on his knees. “I’ve been lookin’ for you everywhere. Dechamps is screaming for you, but won’t let anyone in‘er room. You have to go at once, or I’m sure Elsa will have your head.”

Anne rolls her eyes. “She probably dropped her broach or something and is just far too fragile to pick it up herself.”

“Go. If the Lady Ambassador…”

“I’m going,” Anne groans and tosses the hay in her hands to the ground. Wiping her palms with a few sharp claps together, she pats Ethan on the back of his heaving shoulders. “Sorry to trouble you, rest assured, the Lady’s needs will be attended.”

Shoulders slumped a little forward, Anne trudges her way through the keep until appearing in front of the doorway of Lady Deschamps’ guestroom. With is deep inhale, she plasters a fake smile on her face and shakes the insubordinance from her shoulders. Upon entering the room, however, she is shocked, appalled, and outright disgusted.

“Maid! You finally arrive! Where have you been?” Madame Deschamps wails from atop a gaudy and overly expensive chamber pot. “I am cursed. Cursed! Your cook's ridiculous excuse for Orlesian cuisine has sent me into peril!”

Anne takes a deep breath with all of the stealth she can muster and walks forward into the room. She curtsies and dips her head low. “I apologize for my tardiness, Madame. What can I do?”

The woman grunts and groans and strains herself while clutching at her stomach. “I fear my insides have been turned to stone. What kind of a place is the wretched Skyhold? Tell me, do you think the cook or one of those servants in the kitchens has poisoned me? You must know, and I demand you give me their names so I may have their heads!”

“Madame...I...I know of no such plot to give you such an affliction.” Anne thinks to the ridiculous meals the woman has ordered since her arrival in the keep. What she claims as terrible food was merely at her request, and a most ardent request it was. She fell in love with Donatien’s ability with Orlesian cheeses and demanded everything slathered in all varieties for every meal. “Perhaps, it is all of the cheese, Madame.”

“Excuse me?” she squawks incredulously. “How dare you imply that I did this to myself.”

“Forgive me, Madame,” Anne says softly with a bow, hiding a smirk that she cannot control. “I meant no disrespect. However, may I make a suggestion?”

The woman grunts through her pressure and pain then heaves in disgrace. All at once surrendering to her... _ailment_...and to the need for help. “What is it, maid?”

“Porridge, Madame,” Anne says.

“Porridge?” she squeaks in return.

“Yes, Madame. It is the chosen breakfast for most Fereldans.” She smiles proudly at the woman.

Deschamps scoffs. “I’ve never been one for _peasant_ food.” Anne nods and stands in respectful silence until the Madame sighs and flips her hand out for Anne to leave. “Go tell the cook I would like porridge with my breakfast from now on.”

“Yes, Madame,” Anne bows her head, hiding another secret smile as she slips out the door.

Snickering to herself, she descends the hallways and stairs of the keep, and cannot help but think Madame Deschamps got exactly what was coming to her. Scurrying through the great hall to the door that will take her to the kitchens, however, Anne freezes in silence when the Lady Ambassador herself calls out to her.

“Miss Anne, hello!” the beautiful gilded woman waves from a few paces down the hall. Anne is shocked and stilled by the sight of the woman in all her finery addressing her. She tilts her head round in disbelief, thinking that surely the Lady is calling to another. “My dear,” she says walking unmistakably close to Anne. She outstretches a hand and gives the faintest of rubs on Anne’s right arm while beaming at her with the kindest smile Anne may have ever been given. “Do you have a moment? Could you accompany me to my office?”

Anne stammers. “Ye..yes..ss...milady.” She tries to curtsey or bow or something like that, but it ends up being an awkward wobbly little thing. The Lady Ambassador smiles again, ignoring Anne’s display, and links their arms together while guiding her the few steps to the office door and down its hall.

Anne’s eyes widen upon entry. She’s only ever been in the Ambassador's office but one time, the day she was hired on as a servant. Her eyes glance down the hall that extends past the room, down to the grand doors of the war room. Her mind flickers to the Commander, and wonders what the room is like beyond those large, ornate doors.

“I understand that you usually tend to our Commander when he is with us. Is that correct, Anne?” the Ambassador asks. Her voice is like fine silk that tumbles and drapes elegantly, lilting  and shining in rich candlelight.

“Yes, my lady.”

“So you are no doubt aware of his battle in the Western Approach, yes?”

“Yes, my lady.”

The Ambassador leaves Anne at the edge of her desk, dropping her arm and cascading across the floor to her chair. There is a golden light trickling through the window behind her that gives the woman almost a halo of a glow. Anne is in awe of her. Her awe overshadowing how perplexed she is for being in the fine woman’s presence in the first place.

“Well, it comes with a relieved heart that I should tell you the Commander and the Inquisitor were victorious in their efforts and have begun their journey back to us,” she says while rifling through some papers on her desk.

Anne’s own sense of relief washes over her like as cool, refreshing rain. “That is wonderful news,” she says. A feeling of weightlessness lifts in her mind, and her entire body bobs the tiniest of bits.

He is okay. He is returning.

“Yes, I believe there will be quite the celebration in the tavern tonight,” the Ambassador says though a demure giggle. “And another, grander celebration upon our army’s return.” She rifles through her papers more and says, “I’ve begun my preparations for a small banquet, but I swear, every time my assistant comes through here, my life is turned upside down.” But then her eyes light up and she grins. “Ah! Here it is, I apologize for the delay, Anne.” She lifts a small folded letter that looks to have been accidently pushed into a pile of orders on the edge of her desk.

The Ambassador hands the small letter to Anne, which she takes and waits to learn to whom it should be delivered. “Where shall I take this, my lady?” she asks when the Ambassador merely smiles at her.

“Oh!” her delicate fingertips tap her lips. “Where are my manners? That is for _you_ , Miss Anne. The commander included it in his last report. He requested I give it to you.”

“Yes, it seems our commander has taken quite a shine to you,” a jovial, but oh so intimidating voice says from the hall to the war room.

Anne jolts upon witnessing the Spymaster herself casually stepping toward the Ambassador's desk. Her hands held behind her back, her chainmail glints in the light along with her auburn hair, and a faint but recognizable wicked grin spreads upon her lips below her piercing stare.

Anne feels faint under the attention of the spymaster, and she realizes that she is alone in a room with two of the most intimidating and grand women in Skyhold...possibly in all of Thedas. She takes a gulp that is so large it cannot only be heard, but be seen by these intimidating women. She feels her palms sweat around the soft paper of the letter she clutches in her hand. The paper cracks and crinkles under the pressure and Anne jumps a bit too fast into her words.

“Oh, no. Surely not, my lady-ladies. I’m positive this only states some items his...his….umm.” Her mind is racing. She must pull herself together. The more she stammers, the more she can see the Spymaster’s interest is piqued, and the more the Ambassador joins in with the raising of one eyebrow along with the corner of her mouth.

Anne takes a deep breath and shakes her nervousness from her head, squeezing her eyes shut and wringing her hands around the letter. “What I mean to say is,” she continues once calmed enough to speak, “I’m sure the Commander simply has some needs that must be met upon his arrival.”

“Needs, indeed,” the Spymaster says. She brings her arms to her chest, crossing them while leaning her hip on the Ambassador’s desk. She looks Anne up and down as would a hungry tiger stalking its prey.

“Oh, _shhhh_ , Leliana! Leave the poor girl be,” the Ambassador says and bats her colleague’s shoulder. She smiles again at Anne. “You don’t need to listen to this, my dear. Feel free to return to your duties, and thank you for allowing my interruption.”

“I...no interruption, my lady,” Anne says with a bow. “Please let me know if I can ever be of service to you.” The Ambassador nods and Anne finds her chance to escape. Scurrying out of the office as quickly as she can, she shoves the letter in her skirt pocket. She curses the deep red she knows has ravaged her face while desperately trying to both hear and ignore what the Spymaster murmurs to the Ambassador behind her.

It can’t be good. There is no way the words could be anything but scandalous with the way Anne can hear snickering bubbling behind her.

Perhaps it’s not about her.

No.

Doubtful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giving credit where it is due, I was definitely watching the second season of Outlander yesterday when I saw a scene of the French King constipated on his... ermm...'throne'.... I loved how Jamie proposed the King eat more porridge, and really wanted to throw Anne into that mess. The rest of the chapter formed around it. I hope that was a funny little aside for everyone, and thank you, Outlander, for the material! ;) ;)


	10. Episode 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was in that letter? What will happen once the army returns home?

  


 

The tavern is brimming with excitement. Anne cannot help but smile as she walks in and finds it full of celebrating Skyhold workers and soldiers who stayed behind to guard the keep. A group of workers who are also musicians set up in the corner of the tavern to play loud, exciting, quick-paced music while a few highly-skilled folks dance in front of them. They spin and dance and smile, and their feet move faster than Anne has ever seen.

Before she even reaches the bar, Anne is intoxicated by the atmosphere.  _ Whoops _ and hollers abound, she laughs when one of the dancing men suddenly grabs her and spins her around twice before returning to the others.

Needless to say, once Anne reaches Cabbot, her grin is wide and stretching her face to the point where it is sore - the good kind of sore.

Cabbot is also in a great mood - everyone is. He hands her a dirty nug before she even opens her mouth and shouts, “Tonight it’s on the house!” Anne lifts her glass in solidarity and in thanks while nodding her head at the man, then turns to find a place to sit.

She finds a seat at a long bench near the hearth with a great view of the dancing and general gayety. There is something magical in watching the workers let loose. Sipping her drink, she welcomes the warm buzzing feeling it gives her chest and she claps her free hand on her knee to the fast music’s beat.

It takes a bit of liquid courage before she is able to think about the letter that has been burning a hole in her skirt pocket most of the day. By the time she finished her whiskey, she decides she’s being foolish for fearing a  _ silly-old-letter _ . It’s probably nothing, no matter what the Spymaster implied. 

It must be nothing special.

Setting her cup down, Anne reaches into her pocket and produces the letter. She stares at it a moment, then rolls her eyes and sighs at herself while tearing the thing open.

_ Anne, _ _  
_ _ Unsure of the tasks the Inquisition has for you these days, but the army is coming home. If you are to continue with my care upon my arrival, I would greatly appreciate it if you would pull porridge or anything else with a slimy texture from my meals for the foreseeable future. I simply cannot stomach it at present. _

_ Also, please ask the healers to make extra serum for my headaches. _

_ Thank you, _ _  
_ _ Commander C.S.Rutherford _

Anne stares at the letter. That was it? That was what she was frightened of? 

She admonishes herself for letting the Spymaster’s teasing go to her head. Obviously the Commander doesn’t fancy her. He wasn’t going to survive a terrible battle, realize he cares for her, and then write her a love letter. Nothing about the man would ever make her believe in such silliness. He is far too serious and focused, beyond the fact that she is too low for him in the first place. He may not be of noble blood, but the commander of the strongest army in Thedas has no business with a cidermaid, a kitchen maid, or whatever other duty Skyhold tasks her with.

She inhales and lets out the air in such a way that her body deflates and she melts off her bench and into the floorboards. As preposterous a notion as it is that he would harbor feelings for her, there was a part of her that had hoped she was wrong.

She looks around the room. She stares at the celebration happening around her that has suddenly lost its sparkle. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel so welcoming. Suddenly, she just feels alone. Insignificant. A little mouse watching from the cracks in the wall. And suddenly, she doesn’t want to be there anymore.

Anne stands and works her way through the celebration. Weaving through the happy bodies that don’t notice she’s there at all, she exits the tavern and heads to bed.

\--

It takes two weeks before the bells ring announcing the arrival of the army. Anne was in the Great Hall helping the Lady Ambassador with final preparations for a ball when it happened. As the bells rang, the Ambassador shot her eyes toward the door and away from napkin selections in Anne’s hands. She then took the napkins from her, giving one golden patterned choice to her assistant, and grasped Anne to pull her into the courtyard.

She has been working more closely with the Ambassador as of late. She loves it. Every single minute of it.

“This is so exciting,  _ and _ timely, I might add,” the Lady Ambassador says through the hurried swishing of her skirts and golden ruffles. “I should have known that Cullen would be diligent enough to keep to such a precise schedule, but I feared I would have to delay tonight’s celebration for one reason or another.”

The two of them burst through the doorway of the hall alongside many other Skyhold inhabitants. As people flood the edges of the courtyard, the Ambassador links arms with Anne and stands on the steps for an unencumbered view of the marching mass crossing the bridge.

The Inquisitor and his most trusted are the first to walk through the gates. The gathered crowd cheers and claps and salutes their tired heroes as they do. The members inner circle all smile, a few wave, but then quickly disperse through the crowd, weaving this way and that to get to the corners of the castle that they call home.

The Inquisitor shakes hand after hand as he tries to work his way to the stairs of the Great Hall. He is wearing his helmet, but his body language is such that it is obvious he is exhausted, rundown even.

It takes time and copious amounts of effort on his part, surely, but he makes his way up the stairs. He smiles upon seeing the Ambassador, though this time the smile does not seem forced at all. 

“Josie,” he says with a relaxing sigh. His shoulders drop just a little and he opens his arms for a hug.

The Ambassador releases Anne to receive the hug then congratulates his victory before sweetly ordering him to rest before the night’s ball.

“I'm not sure I feel much like celebrating,” he says. There is a sadness behind his eyes that tugs at Anne’s heart. “We lost so many.” His voice trails off and his eyes fall to the stone beneath their feet.

“Honor their sacrifice,” the Ambassador says, putting her hand on his shoulder. “This is as much for them as it is for the morale of all involved, those who waited here, and those who supported and watched and prayed for you around Thedas.”

“I suppose.” He pushes a smirk and pats her hand before turning to trudge up the last remaining steps into the keep.

“He needs this,” the Ambassador says. They both watch until he disappears inside the hall. She turns to Anne and links their arms again. “He may not realize it now, but they all need this.”

Watching the warm embraces of thankful and happy reunions from their staircase perch, Anne starts to wonder what it will feel like to see  _ his _ face again. She has told herself that the Commander’s absence has quelled her crush on the man, but she can’t help searching the crowd of faces in hopes of seeing him.

When she does, her heart beats a little faster, and she squeezes the Ambassador a little tighter. He works his way through the crowd, but not to the hall. Instead he turns to climb the stairs of the battlements and to his tower. 

It makes sense, really. He needs to rest and become reacquainted with his office.

Obviously.

Even still, Anne feels deflated.

Damn her incessant crush. Damn it all to the void.

The Ambassador squeezes Anne’s arm to gain her attention. “I had a note sent to Cullen’s office that I will require you for the rest of the day. He can have you back tomorrow.” She smiles. It is warm enough to almost make Anne forget her hidden heartbreak.  _ Almost _ .

“Come, let’s get back to work. Tonight must be perfect. They deserve it,” she says, and the two return to the Great Hall.

\--

The banquet and ball is everything the Lady Ambassador hoped and prepared for it to be. Wonderful. 

The entire keep is abuzz with excitement, dancing, games, and comradery. No one was officially working the event, everyone just helped out as needed so that everyone could enjoy themselves. Anne herself, volunteered to keep an eye on a small table of refreshments near the training grounds where groups were sparring and gaming for fun.

“Why are you hiding behind this table?” a familiar voice whispers in her ear. 

Anne giggles and spins to find her friend Bel’nas standing beside her, smirking. “I’m not hiding,” she says. “I’m helping.”

“I haven’t seen you participate in anything, you little wallflower.”

Anne defiantly picks up her cup beside a pitcher of mulled wine. Smirking back at the elf she raises the cup with both hands and takes a drink. “There are benefits to manning the refreshments. I never run dry.”

He laughs a rich laugh. “True enough, but I was hoping I could steal you for a dance up in the hall.”

Anne snorts. “I don’t dance. Nothing that is suited for the Great Hall, anyway.” 

She looks toward the battlement tower and their ever-present glowing windows. Everyone in Skyhold is partaking in the festivities but one man. One stubborn, diligent, disciplined man. Perhaps it was the wine, but an idea springs in her mind.

“Say, will you keep and eye on this for a few minutes? I think I will deliver some wine and biscuits to the Commander.”

Bel’nas looks up at the tower and then back to her, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “So it’s true…” he says.

“What?”

“You and the Commander.”

That knocks Anne off her guard. Though, honestly, that’s a pretty easy thing to do considering the number of cups she’s had of the wine. “Huh?”

“I’ve heard rumors about you two.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she says and a blush flushes her cheeks.

Bel’nas smiles at her reddened face. “Sure.”

“What...what have you heard?”

He plucks a rolled elfroot cigarette from his pocket and places it between his teeth. “Oh, just that you two have some kind of a  _ thing _ ,” he says and lights the end of the rolled paper.

“ _ A thing _ ? There is no  _ thing _ . What kind of thing? He’s my employer.” The man just grins at her and puffs on the elfroot. “What kind of  _ thing _ , ‘Nas?” He simply shrugs his shoulders in response. Frustrated, she snatches the elfroot from between his lips and puffs it while glaring at him and the tower. 

A preposterous notion, she thinks to herself. Not only has nothing happened, nothing ever will. That has been made apparent to her, it should be obvious to anyone else.

Indignantly, she places the cigarette back in his mouth. She then wraps a biscuit in a napkin, sticks it in her pocket, and pours the Commander a cup of wine. She can feel Bel’nas’ smiling burning into the back of her head. “Stop smirking at me,” she huffs and he laughs. “Watch the table,” she says and walks across the grounds to the battlements.

The nerve. It’s absurd. A  _ thing _ ? What people are saying these rumors, she wonders. It undoubtedly all started from the kitchen. Those women have had it out for her since the day she arrived at the keep. 

Marching up the stairs, Anne attempts to shrug off her anger and those rumor spreading little witches. They won’t hold her down. Anne knows the truth. He is just her charge, so she tends to him. How could there be _ a thing _ ? They haven’t even spoken in months.

He is just her employer. Nothing else. Her stupid crush is of no consequence. He’s just a man. A man she works for. Perhaps she should show these gossipers the single letter he sent to her while he was at war. That would show them. There are no feelings there. 

None at all.

Anne knocks on the large, heavy battlement door. “Enter,” is called out from within so she pries it open. 

He’s just a man. She only wants to see that he is well and that he doesn’t miss out on this wine. 

Her eyes - fuming still, even though she’d thought she was shrugging it off - point at the man behind his desk. Her mind goes blank. Could she have forgotten how handsome he is?

“Anne?” he says. 

The door bumps into her rear as it shuts behind her, causing her to squeak a startled little  _ eep  _ accompanied with a jump forward. Regaining her composure as best as she can, she walks forward. “Welcome home, sir. I wanted to bring you a cup of mulled wine.” She sets the wine on his desk in front of him and then reaches into her pocket. “And this,” she says setting the wrapped biscuit beside the cup.

“That is very thoughtful of you, thank you.” He nods then sets back to writing on some kind of report.

Anne’s eyes scan over the papers in front of him. Feeling brazen from the wine she asks, “Will you not take a break? The entire keep is celebrating tonight.”

He does not stop writing or look up, instead he speaks a little more gruffly to her than she’s used to. “There is too much to be done.”

“Ay, but--”

“That’s enough.” He stops her. “Have fun at the banquet.”

“Oh. Yes, sir,” she says, a little shocked and very much embarrassed. 

_ A thing _ …indeed...

She bows a tipsy little thing before turning to escape the office and its inhabitant’s ire. She spins too quickly and her shoe gets caught on an uneven stone in the floor. 

Any other time she would have stumbled, but corrected herself, but tonight...tonight she has been drinking. And tonight, she is embarrassed and careless. So tonight, she does not catch herself, and instead, falls straight forward and flat on her face.

Lying there dazed, pain shooting through her palms and knees and the twisted ankle she most certainly now has, she hears the Commander’s chair screech across the floor and the footsteps of his boots hurrying toward her.

“Anne, are you alright?” he says and grabs hold of her arm and waist to prop her back up.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. A tear falls down her cheek. The blasted thing.

“No. No. I’m sorry,” he says. He is still holding on to her, though neither of them seem to realize it. “I shouldn’t have been so short with you. Forgive me.”

“Of course, sir. There is nothing to forgive,” she says, wiping her eyes of foul little tears that won’t go away. “I think I had a little too much of that wine.”

He chuckles. “Happens to the best of us from time to time. Are you alright?”

“Yes.” More embarrassed than she has ever been in her life, and probably getting a swollen ankle and bruises as she stands there like a fool, but she is alright. “I will leave you to your work.”

Anne attempts to turn back to the door, but she trips. Partly due to the fact that her ankle is most definitely injured. Partly due to the fact that he was still holding on to her. 

His hands grab a firmer grasp around her waist. “Perhaps you should sit. I can fetch a healer to look at your ankle.”

“No, no,” she says. “That won’t be necessary.” She glances up at him. Well, it was meant to be a glance, but her eyes freeze in his when she realizes just how close his face is to hers. She can see the individual bands of gold and amber that make up his iris. They are beautiful.

He seems to freeze as well, and there is a stillness in the air. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity with no one saying anything, no one doing anything.

Suddenly, she is very aware of his hands upon her waist. And suddenly, she is very aware of the rate and shallowness to which she is breathing. She cannot breathe at all, really. To breathe more would be to pant, and she does not wish to show her fear. 

He is so close.

He is touching her.

He is not saying  _ anything _ .

He looks at her, presses his lips together, then swallows. “What I should have said...back there…” he begins. His voice is low and a little raspy. Anne lungs scream for air, but she keeps her breaths shallow, almost completely still. “Is thank you. And you are a sight for sore eyes.”

He looks at her like he is searching for something. She manages to squeak an airy little response. “It was no bother, Commander. I’m just glad you’ve made it home safely.”

He smiles a very small, very quick smile that turns the scar on his lip. Anne cannot help but to look. 

They are so close to her, those lips.

All either of them would need to do is lean forward. Just a hair... 

She feels his thumb skim over the fabric on her waist. A tingling sensation bursts from his skimming thumb across her skin underneath.

_ A thing? _

He begins to speak, calling her eyes back to his, though his travel down to her lips that she now realizes are parted. “May I--”

“Here they are, sir!” Another office door swings open. “It took some doing with  _ everyone else _ celebrating, but I have Sister Leliana’s reports.”

The Commander growls a gruff and gutteral sound, swinging his head to the messenger now in his office. “Jim, have I not told you once but a thousand times to knock before entry?!”

“But, Commander, you said to make haste and it had already taken me so long…”

“What?” he says, but it is more of a growl than anything else. 

His hands release Anne’s waist and effectively break whatever spell she was under a few moments ago. She stares at the messenger boy and then at the Commander. Thoughts of what this must look like race through her mind as well as the rumors that will be fueled by the boy’s own gossip.

“I mean, I’m sorry, sir,” he says, a little shake to his voice. He looks at Anne and back at the Commander. “I--I shall set these on your desk for you, sir?”

“I really must be going,” Anne hears herself say. She slides away from the Commander and limps quickly to the open door behind the boy.

“Wait, Anne. You’re ankle?” the Commander calls out behind her.

“It’s fine Commander, thank you!” she calls back, refusing to look over her shoulder and become locked under that spell once again. She has to go. The impropriety of it all. She escapes into the night, her ankle throbbing in pain as she hobbles away. 

He’s just a man. 

A man she works for. 

There is no  _ thing _ . 

That was not  _ a thing _ .


End file.
